


until the end, until this blood

by MistressKat



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ordinary People, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Sentinel Senses, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22053556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: "The long-term outcomes of this group depend on the age of onset, the length of the initial SOC (sensory overload coma) and, most importantly, on how quickly a successful bond can be formed. Across the eighteen studies reviewed, the cohorts on average demonstrated a 95% survival rate if guide bond was established within first four weeks, declining to less than 50% at six months and steadily thereafter. Reflecting the circumstances, the subsequent sentinel-guide pairs are likely to be atypical, and often require an extended period of adjustment. The policy implications are significant. The authors recommend a full scale audit of the current screening processes, to increase the likelihood of early detection. Further research into the experiences of late onset sentinels and their bonded guides should focus on identifying the best practice in sanctuary support."-Finch, H., Keele, A., & Warner, E.(2017). A Systematic Review on Late Onset Sentinels: Risk Factors, Protective Factors and Outcomes.International Journal of Sentinel Studies,39(2): 773-804.
Relationships: Gerard Way/Mikey Way
Comments: 19
Kudos: 46
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	until the end, until this blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pushkin666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/gifts).



> My second Fandom Trumps Hate fic for pushkin666 who was the second highest bidder. Her request was ‘Sentinel Waycest with angst and sex’ so this is pretty much exactly that. Thank you to [personal profile] pushkin666 for the title suggestion (slightly adapted from MCR’s _Demolition Lovers_ ) and to her and HanHathma for cheerleading as I wrote this whole fucking thing in less than a week. Special, special thank you to dreamersdare for excellent and truly last-minute beta work. Her edits were brutal and thanks to them this fic is about 9000% better. In your debt, babe. All remaining mistakes are mine.

It happens to Gerard around four in the afternoon. He’s been awake for two hours, has had five cups of coffee and is ready to pick up where he left off last night. Morning. Whatever.  
  
There is nothing special about today. It’s a Wednesday, which Gerard only knows because he happened to look at the calendar in the kitchen when getting his third cup of coffee. And because later, Mikey will tell him, whispering the words ‘two weeks ago, on a Wednesday’ into the artificial stillness of the Sanctuary safe room.  
  
But that’s still to come.  
  
Right now, Gerard is battling a headache, one that has been getting steadily worse for weeks. He hisses at the light like a vampire, reluctantly closing the curtains. Normally, natural light is best for the detailed work he’s doing right now, but it seems the migraine has other ideas.  
  
If he could, he would just go back to sleep, but the deadline is approaching and his agent is already sending pointed emails. So he’s been doing linework with the aid of coffee and in the artificial light of his desk lamp, which must have something wrong with it since it has started to make a noise, a kind of buzzing whine that has been getting steadily louder all afternoon.  
  
Maybe Mikey is right, Gerard thinks, maybe he should book a doctor’s appointment. But as long as no one tells him he has an incurable brain tumor then… Well, he hasn’t got an incurable brain tumor and everything is just fine; this is just a headache, probably brought on too much work and caffeine and too little food or fresh air.  
  
It’s not that Gerard _forgets_ things like meals and socialising. He just gets so engrossed in his art that they drop right to the bottom of his to do list, well below ‘finish this panel’ and ‘just get this reference right, do legs bend like this?’ And when Mikey is on tour he’s not, well, here to insist Gerard leaves his studio or, god forbid, the house.  
  
That’s not to say he doesn’t try. It’s a rare day when Gerard doesn’t get at least one call and five texts with some variation of ‘eat’ and ‘go smell the roses’ or ‘talk to another human being, face to face, no I don’t count’. Gerard sincerely intends to do just that every time but then, once they hang up or he’s answered a message… Well, those things slip right down the list again.  
  
It’s never been this bad though. Gerard’s had headaches before and numerous colds, but he’s never felt like his brain is about to leak out through his eyeballs, like his stomach is about to turn itself inside out, like every noise and smell is unbearable. The idea of food makes him want to gag and even his coffee tastes unusually bitter, though he keeps chugging it down out of habit. Even his clothes seem to chafe him the wrong way and he’s constantly either too cold or too hot. The light sensitivity is a bitch though and not exactly conducive to visual arts.  
  
Determinedly, Gerard squints at the paper and adjust the light, wincing as the _bzzz bzzz bzzz_ of it seems to increase in volume. He draws a line. A second later it seems to split into three, all of them wavering across the page.  
  
Fuck.  
  
With a sigh he tosses the pen aside and leans back on his chair, rubbing hands over his face. What the hell is wrong with him today?  
  
He thinks about calling Mikey but… Mikey is in Atlanta. Or Vegas. Somewhere on the opposite end of the country, probably still sleeping or at least surrounded by the rest of his band and what the hell could he do anyway? Except tell Gee to go to the doctor and worry unnecessarily.  
  
Gerard freely admits being a selfish brother when it comes to Mikey’s attention and time, but this… This would serve no purpose other than make him feel temporarily better just for having someone to moan at. Besides, Mikey is due home next week anyways and then Gerard can bitch about the awful migraine he had and how he almost didn’t make his deadline because of it.  
  
Because obviously by then the headache will be gone, his work will be finished and everything will be _just fine._  
  
Right now, ‘fine’ seems out of reach though. Gerard gets up and almost trips over his own feet. Maybe some fresh air would actually help. A cautious peek behind the curtains reveals a grey, overcast day, so maybe it will be okay.  
  
It’s early enough in the afternoon that the houses and streets around are quiet, most people still only on their way home from work and school. The temperature is on the cool side, and for a moment the fresh breeze does bring some relief. The light still seems too much but Gerard sits on the front steps, closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Like this it’s almost… bearable.  
  
It doesn’t last.  
  
Suddenly, there’s a squeal of tires, like a knife through his ears. Gerard jolts in surprise, opening his eyes just in time to see a car careening around the corner. The driver is either drunk or otherwise out of control, because it’s going fast and weaving all over the place. Gerard is up and running toward the gate on some kind of instinct, not that there’s anything he can do except witness the inevitable.  
  
For a moment he thinks the car is actually going to hit one of the houses, veering all over the place. Then he scrambles back because for a heart-stopping second it looks as though it’s going to hit _him_. But no, the car misses both, its path stopped rather violently by one of the large oaks that line the street.  
  
Objectively, the crash isn’t too bad. There are no explosions, not even any smoke, but the _sound_ …  
  
It’s like Gerard can hear every millimetre of metal as it folds into itself on impact, every splinter from the tree as it’s torn out. And worse still, he can hear the airbag, deploying inside the vehicle, the sound of the driver’s body hitting it, the scream of muscle and tendon and bone, the way the woman’s leg snaps echoing like a thunderclap in Gerard’s mind.  
  
None of it is as bad as the cry of pain she makes, helpless and afraid, and it tugs something primal in Gerard’s chest.  
  
He has no chance to focus on it though. No chance to focus on anything, the sensory information suddenly bombarding him from all directions. It’s like everything goes slow motion, and Gerard not only hears the crash, each agonising second by second, but sees it too; pieces of the bonnet and tree chunks flying out in a pattern that is almost hypnotizing, the white paint peeling off the car like a thin layer of snow. He can smell the freshly turned earth under the tires, the blood seeping from the driver’s forehead. He can taste them too; grass and copper and slick oil coating the inside of his mouth. Gerard drops to his hands and knees, and the gravel under his palms is like nails, the sensation shoving up his arms.  
  
It’s too much. He turns around and runs back to the house, scrambling through the door completely overwhelmed. It’s like he’s gone deaf and blind, except the opposite. Everything is coming at him at once and he can’t concentrate enough to even accurately judge the distance between furniture, or between his own body and the doorframe.  
  
He bounces off it on the way to his studio, careening wildly as he finally loses his balance entirely, landing right on his easel. The box of oil paints he keeps by it tips over, paint tubes flying everywhere. Most of them a shut tight and clatter harmlessly to the floor. But some aren’t and those land with a splattering sound, puddling colors everywhere. More still end up under Gerard as he falls to the ground, splitting open under his weight.  
  
The effect is a like someone let in a group of three-year-old fingerpainters; mauve and umber and ultramarine and crimson and viridian and… The colors mix into new combinations, smearing under Gerard’s hands, covering his skin in infinite variety of shades and tones and Gerard is drowning in all of it, falling deeper and deeper until he can make out individual pigments, then the spaces between, then…  
  
Nothing.  
  
  
***  
  
  
It happens to Mikey around one pm on that Wednesday too. Same time, different time zone. Or at least something happens, some distant prelude of what’s to come. They are in the middle of soundcheck, having gotten to the venue early for a change and taking full advantage of it.  
  
One minute everything is fine. Frank and Ray are riffing together idly and Mikey is up on the stand with Bob, trying a new variation of the cover song they’re doing that night, his bass warm and familiar in his hand.  
  
The next minute he’s flat on his back, blinking at the worried faces of his bandmates. There an ache on his chest, like someone had tried a string around his heart and was pulling it tight. Mikey digs the heel of his hand to his chest bone and resist the urge to curl into a ball.  
  
“What happened?” he asks, accepting the hand Ray offers.  
  
“Dunno man, you just… keeled over,” Bob says.  
  
“Like… Wham!” Frank smacks a fist into his palm for emphasis. “Did you faint? Are you okay? Do we need to get you a doctor?”  
  
Mikey is about to say ‘yes, maybe an ambulance’ because his chest really hurts and maybe this is what a heart attack feels like when, just as suddenly as it came on, the pain is gone.  
  
“Oh,” he says, straightening up and shaking his shoulders. “No. I’m… fine. I’m fine. Just… Going to have some water. Maybe a sandwich?”  
  
The others nod and everyone breaks for food and drinks.  
  
Mikey does have a sandwich and two glasses of tepid tap water the bartender hands him. And he feels… fine. Probably. There’s still an odd feeling somewhere inside, like a phantom pain, but determinedly he ignores it.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The rest of it happens to Mikey in stages.  
  
The following day he feels like sleepwalking. He’s sitting at the back of the van in a haze, staring at his phone but unable to think of anything to text or anyone to text it to. Not even Gee. What would he say? ‘I feel weird’?  
  
He plays through the gig on automatic, knowing all the while that he’s not exactly giving it his all but unable to help it, enduring everyone’s concerned glances between the songs.  
  
Afterwards, Mikey stumbles off the stage to find one of the venue staff waiting for him.  
  
“There’s a call for you,” she says and her face tells him it’s not going to be a happy one. “It’s about your brother.”  
  
Mikey feels the earth tilt on its axis, solid ground slipping away.  
  
  
***  
  
  
There are five missed calls on Mikey’s cell, all from a withheld number and all from the last couple of hours while he’d been on stage for the gig.  
  
The back room is small and overrun with file folders. This is clearly one office that hasn’t gone paperless yet. There’s even a landline, one of those old-fashioned ones, the receiver waiting on the desk, looking ominous.  
  
Mikey doesn’t want to pick it up.  
  
He does it anyway, sitting heavily on the rickety chair.  
  
“Mr Michael Way?” a voice says. “This is Dr Croydon from the Jersey Sanctuary. I’m calling about your brother Gerard. You’re listed as the next of kin and…”  
  
Whatever the doctor says next, Mikey doesn’t hear. The words ‘Jersey Sanctuary’ ring over everything else, like a giant bell struck right beside him, close enough that the vibrations make his bones rattle.  
  
  
***  
  
  
It takes Mikey over a day to get back to New Jersey, even with the first flight out to the east coast. The band scrounge together enough for a ticket and Mikey is grateful though he has no room left to fully express it. Everything in him is focused on getting to his brother, Gerard’s name running through his head in a constant litany, interrupted only by a repeated admonition of ‘what if’ and ‘please let him make it’.  
  
Since the phone call, Mikey has had a crash course on sentinels. Everyone knows the basics, of course; enhanced senses, evolved to act as guardians of their community, vulnerable and prone to insanity if not bonded. Most sentinels are identified through genetic testing in known carrier families or through early manifestation.  
  
None of it sounds like something that would happen to Gerard. There are no known sentinels in the Way family, not as far as Mikey knows, although as he had told Dr Croydon, their parents and grandparents had all died when he and Gerard had been teenagers so they weren’t fully fluent on the family lore. They’d never had any reason to research it either and though doing so now might reveal something that would explain the current events, it won’t change anything so Mikey doesn’t see the point.  
  
There had been no signs during the first thirty odd years of Gerard’s life to indicate his senses were in any way superior. Well, he’d always had a good eye for colors and composition, but… That was just being a talented artist. Not every painter or sculptor or photographer in the world was a sentinel. In fact, studies – thoughtfully summarised by Wikipedia – tended to show that whilst the prevalence was slightly higher than in the general population, it was not statistically significant, so offering genetic testing to every kid who got an A in art wasn’t something the government spent money on.  
  
Though maybe they should, Mikey thinks angrily, boarding the plane. Because maybe then Gerard would have gotten help and advice and not… Not this.  
  
Once in his seat, he finds the article on his phone again. He’s already read through it twice of course; a somewhat dense piece entitled ‘A Systematic Review on Late Onset Sentinels: Risk Factors, Protective Factors and Outcomes’ that Dr Croydon had forwarded him. It’s also one of the several cited on the sentinel Wiki page, so he assumes it’s a good one. Mikey isn’t a medical doctor so some of the detail go right over his head, but the gist of the research is clear enough. Phrases like ‘general deterioration in health coupled with a triggering trauma event’ and ‘95% survival rate if guide bond established within first four weeks, declining to less than 50% at six months and steadily thereafter’ wind themselves around Mikey like steel chains. He stares at the numbers until they blur, his grip around the phone tight enough to turn his fingertips white, the tendons in his wrist aching. He will not lose his brother.  
  
He will _not_.  
  
And yet, no matter how much he repeats that, the fear of it sits in his stomach like a ball of lead, heavy and cold.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“He is my _brother!_ ”  
  
“We are well aware of this, Mr Way. But right now –”  
  
“I need to see him!”  
  
“You _are_ seeing him, Mr Way.” The attendant points at the observation window. On the other side of it, Gerard lies on a thin pallet, tightly curled on his side. “If you would just calm—”  
  
“Do _not_ tell me to calm down!” Mikey presses his palm against the window, eyes flicking between his brother’s still – too still, god, please – form and the monitor tracking his vital signs. “I need to be in there with him,” he says, for what feels like the thousandth time. “Why can’t you just let me go in?”  
  
The attendant sighs, exchanging a look with her guide, one that is not without sympathy. “Any foreign stimulus at this time may—”  
  
“I’m his _brother!_ ” Mikey snaps. “I’m not foreign. He’ll _know_ me.” He’s exhausted, unable to remember the last time he so much as raised his voice and now he’s been shouting, arguing, pleading for what feels like ages but is probably only an hour.  
  
“He might not,” the attendant’s guide says. He’s a large man, much bigger than his sentinel and normally Mikey would appreciate the reversal of the stereotype, but right now the two of them only really register as People Keeping Him Away from Gerard.  
  
“The sensory overload he experienced has pushed him into a near catatonic state,” the guide continues. “The best chance of drawing him back is the guide bond. As next of kin, we need your consent for…” He trails off, grimacing.  
  
Mikey clenches his fists. Dr Croydon had already explained it. The majority of sentinels came online gradually, many as part of the specific programmes at sanctuaries. The genetic testing ensured that most would-be sentinels were enrolled onto them as soon as they came of age and learned to both use their senses and prepare for the guide bond, to meet potential matches, to have some semblance of choice.  
  
Prospective guides were identified through suitability testing; something people mostly self-selected for, although teachers and counsellors were trained to spot potential candidates in order to raise the issue. If there was a genetic marker for guides, no one had found it yet. Not all who volunteered ended up being bonded either, though a good three quarters did.  
  
Bonding was not an option for sentinels, but a necessity. Those who discovered their fate early and had time to adjust could survive without a guide bond for a long time, although deterioration of the abilities started to show after a few years. Not that anyone chose to go without a guide for that long if they could help it. The bond stabilised neurotransmitter activity, enhancing control over one’s senses. But more than that, who would refuse a genetically matched soulmate?  
  
Sentinel-guide pairs had been the subjects of stories, songs and art since time immemorial, the bond an inspiration for romance and tragedy both. Not a year went by without a box office hit on the theme, all the greater if starring an actual sentinel-guide pair of actors.  
  
Ideal, right? Unless you are like Gerard, whose sentinel senses had come online late and totally unexpected. Then even the pretence of voluntary consent goes out of the window and establishing a bond becomes a matter of survival.  
  
This is what they need Mikey for. To give consent when Gerard can’t, to allow the Sanctuary to foist some stranger onto Gerard for life because to do otherwise is to condemn him to slow death. From what Dr Croydon says, they can’t even wait for him to regain consciousness. Largely because he is unlikely to.  
  
Mikey turns his back to the safe room. With its soundproofing, air filters, carefully bland walls, it’s like a prison cell, he thinks. Gerard hasn’t even _done_ anything.  
  
“Where’s the paperwork?” he asks, resignedly. He hates this and Gerard may never forgive him but… At least he’ll be around to fight about it, after.  
  
“Here.” The sentinel attendant passes him a large stack of forms. “When you are done with these, we’re going to ask you to look through the guide profiles,” she adds, apologetic but firm. “Normally, we’d offer compatibility tests, chance for casual meetings but now…” She shrugs.  
  
“No one here knows Gerard,” her guide adds gently. “We have nothing on him except medical records. Mr Way, you know your brother best. You’ll know what kind of person would be best suited for him.”  
  
Mikey can only nod, the tightness in his chest increasing at the thought but… They are right. He can’t leave it to chance. Not if he can make this in any way more bearable.  
  
He reads the forms and signs each and every one, three copies of some. Afterwards, he is led through the corridors into the Guide Wing.  
  
The New Jersey Sentinel Sanctuary of Saint Adrian of Nicomedia, the patron saint of guards, looks like a cross between a place of commerce and a prison, one that was built over a century ago and hasn’t been modernised since. The ceilings are high and each step Mikey takes seems to echo forever. Late afternoon sunlight slants through the tall windows. The air feels thin.  
  
_He_ feels thin too. Hollowed out and sharp, like something made of glass.  
  
“We can arrange for you to interview—”  
  
“No.” Mikey swallows. He can’t, he can’t. “No, I… Just the records. I’ll look at the files.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
It takes him several hours and it’s well past midnight by the time he’s done, but Mikey finally has a small selection of people who, at least on paper, seem like the type Gerard would get on with. Mikey can imagine them as people who might have ended up as friends, partners, if Gerard had met them at a gig or a comic book store or through some mutual acquaintance like… like normal people.  
  
He catches a couple of hours of fitful sleep in the sparsely decorated guest room he’s shown to. His dreams are full of Gerard. They’re not nightmares, nothing much even happens, just him and Gee, hanging at home, at some music venue.  
  
At their parents’ graveside.  
  
Mikey wakes up from that one with wet cheeks. He hasn’t cried about his mom and dad since his sixteenth birthday, curled against Gerard’s back as they spent the night watching crappy TV and pretending everything was fine. In the bathroom, he scrubs his face until no trace of the tears remain. He can’t do anything about his red-rimmed eyes but the worry and tiredness explain them well enough.  
  
There’s a refectory, a noisy place full of sentinels, guides and regular humans; staff, students, residents. Mikey skips it, unable to deal with that many people, and instead gets himself a cup of crappy vending machine coffee from the visitors’ lounge.  
  
The Sanctuary is built in a large quadrangle, the inside of it taken over by a garden. Even now with the autumn turning to winter, the place is beautiful, full of tall trees and cast-iron benches. Mikey watches his breath escape in a white cloud, shivering in his old coat, the one he’s meant to replace at least for the last three winters.  
  
Dr Croydon finds him there. Not that Mikey was trying to hide, not really.  
  
“I looked through your selection,” she comments, coming to stand by him. Her coat is much newer and thicker than his and trimmed with fake fur.  
  
“And?” Mikey asks.  
  
“And I think we should get started right away.” She’s brusque, but not unkind. “Your brother is unlikely to come out of this on his own. Sooner we can establish a bond, the better—”  
  
“I know.” Mikey tilts his head back. The sky is off-white, heavy with snow. “I’m ready.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
He is not ready.  
  
But this isn’t about him, this is about Gerard. So he grits his teeth, watching the first potential guide match enter the safe room. She’s a woman of Gee’s age with dark hair, tattoos and a sense of purpose to her steps as she approaches the pallet and neatly folds herself next to it, sitting cross-legged.  
  
Mikey can see her talking, her lips moving as she brings her hands close to Gerard’s face but not touching.  
  
“Do you want the audio?” The sentinel from yesterday is back and this time Mikey actually glances at the name badge on her green jacket. Elston. V Elston.  
  
“No.” Mikey shakes his head. He has an idea what the woman is saying, thanks to Dr Croydon’s explanation of the process which actually wasn’t miles different from the trashy romance movies he’s seen. He doesn’t want to hear it.  
  
The female guide stays with Gerard for several hours.  
  
Nothing happens.  
  
She looks genuinely disappointed by the time she finally gives up, getting up with a despondent headshake.  
  
“It’s not unusual,” Dr Croydon reassures him. “We’ll try another one this afternoon.”  
  
The next person from Mikey’s list is a man, this time older by at least five years. His manner is more tentative and he spends much longer walking the perimeter of the room before even approaching Gerard.  
  
“Is he singing?” Mikey asks, frowning at the scene.  
  
“Yes. Studies show that some sentinels find a steady rhythm and meter effective for bringing them out of deep zone,” Elston says. “Me included,” she adds with a smile.  
  
“Huh.”  
  
This guide is patient too. Not that it makes any difference, because Gerard doesn’t even twitch an eyelid in response, and after several hours the guide gives up.  
  
“Not me,” he says, shrugging.  
  
Dr Croydon still doesn’t look worried. “Tomorrow’s another day,” she says, smiling reassuringly.  
  
  
***  
  
  
She’s not smiling a week later. Neither is Sentinel Elston or her guide, Ruiz.  
  
They have gone through every prospective guide on Mikey’s list a while ago and have moved on to just about anyone at the Sanctuary. None of them can get through to Gerard.  
  
“I’m calling for volunteers from the NYC Sanctuary,” Dr Croydon says. “There’s still a chance…”  
  
“You’re lying,” Mikey says. He’s slumped over the chair in her office, head in his hands. “Gee is getting worse and you’re… This isn’t working!” He heaves a slow breath, forces down the sob that threatens to choke him. “Why isn’t it working?” he asks plaintively.  
  
Dr Croydon purses her lips, clearly considering her words carefully. “I’m not lying,” she says at last. “There is still a chance of a guide bond. But… I have never known it take this many candidates to find one, even in situations as extreme as your brother’s, Mr Way. As to why…” She trails off, gaze wandering to the window, the steadily falling sleet blurring the view.  
  
“I cannot say for sure. Usually, this is an indication of an existing bond. Or a pre-bond, if you like. A connection that has taken root enough to make alternatives unlikely. Tell me, Mr Way, does your brother have a particularly close friend? An ex-partner? Someone he would’ve…?”  
  
“No.” Mikey shakes his head. “I don’t… I can’t think of anyone special like that. His last ex was an asshole and the one before that moved away and Gee hasn’t seen her for ages.”  
  
Dr Croydon sighs. “We can only wait. The first NYC volunteers should arrive tomorrow. In the meanwhile, I—”  
  
“Can I see him now?” Mikey asks. “Please. He’s my brother. I… You said he’s not getting any better. What if…” He swallows, unable to finish the sentence. “Please?”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Mikey has to go through a routine akin to one he imagines CDC workers are familiar with. First, he’s given actual _written instructions_ , complete with pictures, for a shower. It turns out to be a wash more thorough than he thinks he’s probably ever had in his life. This is followed by a set of hypoallergic scrubs the kind he’s seen all the guide candidates wearing over the last fuck-knows how many days.  
  
He doesn’t complain. The only thing that matters is getting to see Gerard. Properly, without fucking soundproof glass between them, to touch him, to talk to him, to… The ache in his chest, which has never gone away, flares up hot and urgent the closer he gets, and by the time he’s in the antechamber to the safe room it takes all he has not to hunch over from the pain.  
  
The doors hiss open, and then shut behind him. It’s eerily quiet.  
  
“Gee?” Mikey can feel the way his voice breaks on the single syllable. He’s seen his brother sick before, flushed with fever or pale from puking his guts out. He’s seen him sleeping, deep and still.  
  
None of that prepares him for the sight of him now, curled on his side, muscles locked tight as if in rigor mortis already. His eyes are half-open, something Mikey had not been able to see from the observation room. The pupils are blown wide, nothing but a sliver of black peeking from under half-closed lids. It’s obvious that whatever Gerard is seeing, it’s not the room that he’s in. Not Mikey.  
  
“Gerard,” Mikey says, swallowing thickly. “Hey. It’s me.” He drops down onto the floor, his knees giving out on him and cracking painfully against the tiles. Not that he cares. “I’m here. I’m here, Gee.” Slowly, he reaches over and takes one of his brother’s hands in his, gently coaxing the tightly curled fingers open enough to slip his under them. “I’m… I… Your editor called,” he says, inanely. “Sounds like you got an extension on your deadline so wouldn’t worry about that.”  
  
Mikey dredges up a wan smile. “The guys say hi. Well, Frank said ‘tell your brother to stop interrupting our tour’ but he was just covering for being a great big sap. Probably going to hug the shit out of you when he sees you next.” Mikey shifts into a sitting position, never letting go of Gerard’s hand, and settles in to talk about… anything, everything, in the hopes that some of it filters through. His voice. Gerard’s name. Something.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The world is splintered.  
  
Light enters his eyes and explodes across nerve-endings in a shower of million stars. The sound of his own heart is like a war drum, the constant roar of his veins, the buzz of electricity between one nerve and the next, all of it inescapable. The air tastes of metal and smells like fear, the chafe of fabric against his skin unbearable.  
  
The world is splintered and so is he, too scared to move lest he shatter.  
  
So he locks himself tight, tight and small and safe.  
  
And alone.  
  
Except.  
  
Except for the voice.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“…so then Bob said ‘well if that’s how you want it, that’s how you’re going to get it’ and he just picked Frank up like he didn’t weigh anything and carried him over to…”  
  
Mikey is still talking. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but his mouth is dry and his body aches from sitting on the floor. He doesn’t plan to stop though. Not until they make him.  
  
So far, no one has even suggested that the visiting hours are over. He’d like to think it’s a sign of goodwill on part of the Sanctuary staff, but he fears it’s a sign of resignation instead. They’re not limiting his visit, because they don’t expect him to have a chance for another one.  
  
“You should’ve seen it, Gee,” Mikey says, grips Gerard’s hand for emphasis, the way he’s been doing regularly. “You should’ve…” He clears his throat, licks his lips, cracked enough that he can taste faint copper. “You need to wake up.” He grabs Gerard’s hand in both of his. “Please. Please, Gee, you can’t…” His voice is thick now and he blinks against the tears that threaten. “I can’t lose you too,” Mikey whispers. “You’re all I have. Don’t leave me.”  
  
He squeezes Gerard’s hands again and then jerks backwards in surprise. He could’ve sworn… There! Small, but _there_ , Gerard’s fingers twitch, curling around Mikey’s minutely before letting go.  
  
Mikey waves urgently at the observation window, hoping someone is going to get the clue that something is happening. That Gerard is… waking up?  
  
“Gee? C’mon, can you hear me?” Mikey leans close once more until he’s hovering right above Gerard’s face.  
  
Prime position to see when his eyes snap fully open, the glassy glaze in them replaced by focus so sudden and intense that Mikey automatically pulls back a bit.  
  
Only to find out that there is nowhere to go.  
  
Gerard’s hands, previously so unmoving, have now wrapped themselves around Mikey’s upper arms in a vice-like grip. Mikey jerks against it once on instinct but then subsides. He doesn’t really want to get away anyway and it’s clear that Gerard isn’t quite… himself.  
  
“Hey,” he tries again. “Welcome back. We were… _ngah?_ ” Without ceremony he is yanked down to Gerard’s chest, his arms coming fully around them.  
  
And then Gerard, he… growls. Or, that’s ridiculous, humans don’t do that, not even sentinels. Except that’s very much what the noise sounds like.  
  
“Um, hey, woah, what…”  
  
Gerard growls again, hooks his legs around Mikey’s and neatly rolls them off the pallet. They land on the side farthest from the door, Gerard on top. His face is jammed against Mikey’s neck and he’s taking long, heaving breaths through his nose, almost as if he’s… smelling Mikey.  
  
With a jolt, Mikey realises that that’s exactly what Gerard is doing. He’s kind of grateful for the intense pre-visit cleaning routine now, guessing that a week’s worth of fear sweat would probably be unpleasant for sentinel senses.  
  
“It’s me,” he says, somewhat inanely and cautiously pats Gerard’s back, finding the muscles tense and completely unforgiving. “It’s okay. Listen,” There’s a sound of the doors swishing open and running steps approaching. “That’s the doctor coming to help. It’ll be… Hey!”  
  
Two pairs of hands reach down and forcibly pull Gerard off him. Mikey scrambles up to a sitting position, ready to tell everyone off for patient brutality because there’s no need… But then he gets a first proper look at Gerard’s face, his expression twisted into something feral and enraged and panicked all at once, teeth bared as he wrenches his head back and gets Ruiz right on his nose, blood bursting out, bright and crimson.  
  
“Son of a bitch!” he curses, while Elston tightens her grip, pulling Gerard further away, arms locked around his, holding them behind his back.  
  
Gerard is fighting. That alone is so unexpected, so out of character that it leaves Mikey gawping wordlessly. He’s never seen Gerard fight, not once, the most physical he’s ever gotten is some playful shoving in from of a video game or an occasional tickle fight that turned into a wrestling match when they were younger, but this… Gerard is screaming in frustration, his feet kicking at anything in reach as he tries to turn around and get at Elston, or, barring that, anyone who comes within touching distance.  
  
Mikey flinches when he sees the way his teeth snap at Dr Croydon when she tries to get close enough with her syringe.  
  
“What are you…?”  
  
“Ruiz!” the doctor barks. “Get him out of here! Now!”  
  
And then Mikey himself is being lifted off the ground and unceremoniously swung over Ruiz’s sizeable shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The last thing he sees before the doors to the safe room close, are Gerard’s eyes, black and burning and fixated on Mikey.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The voice becomes a thread becomes a path becomes a pull so powerful Gerard can’t resist being swept along by it, hurtling toward the world. It’s like falling into a river, except the floodwaters rushing him along are warm and familiar, feeling like safety and home and… and he knows the face looking down at him, maybe better than his own, knows the smell, the voice and the texture of skin, and he grasps and clutches at the body above him, underneath him because he is known and loved and… His.  
  
The thread in Gerard’s mind unspools, reaching out, ready to wrap the two of them together…  
  
Only to be brutally interrupted as other people intrude, pulling him away, putting their hands all over him and his brother. It makes him angrier than he ever remembers being, the red haze of rage driving out everything except the burning need to get back to where he was, to chase everyone else away. The stability that had seemed so tantalizingly close just moments ago tips right out of reach again.  
  
Gerard howls.  
  
There’s a pinch to his thigh and the cold wash of chemicals pull him under like a sheet of ice.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“What the hell happened?” Mikey is back on his own two feet but there’s tremor in his muscles he can’t seem to stop, adrenaline making him jittery. “He just woke up and you, you sedated him again!?”  
  
The others don’t seem much better to be honest. What happened has clearly left everyone shaken, and not just emotionally. Ruiz is pressing a wet towel against his nose, Elston hovering over him in full concerned sentinel mode, glaring daggers at the observation window. Dr Croydon is slumped on a chair, looking like someone cut her strings.  
  
“Do you…?” She takes a deep breath, clearly steeling herself. “Do you have any idea what just almost happened, Mr Way?” she asks.  
  
Mikey grinds his teeth in frustration. “If I did, do you think I would be asking?”  
  
“Your brother was trying to force a guide bond on you,” Elston bites out. “If we hadn’t pulled him off…”  
  
Dr Croydon looks momentarily annoyed, like she would have preferred to phrase the news a bit more gently, but then sighs. “She is correct. Your presence pulled Gerard out of his zone and straight into bonding disposition. Five more minutes and it would have been too late.”  
  
Mikey can feel his mouth opening but nothing comes out. His gaze snaps back to the safe room, on the floor of which Gerard is slumped, unconscious once more. His arm is stretched out toward the door, as if reaching for Mikey still.  
  
The feeling in his chest, the tight pulling that he’s been feeling since the phone call from the Sanctuary and— Wait. No. Since well before that. Since the previous day when…  
  
When Gerard’s sentinel senses came dramatically online.  
  
Slowly, he walks to the window and rests his palms against it. Then his forehead.  
  
“I’m not a guide,” he says softly. “I’ve never even thought about getting tested. Never wanted…”  
  
“Never wanted a connection like that with anyone?” Dr Croydon asks, gently.  
  
“Or…?” Ruiz’s voice is still a bit congested but, when Mikey turns to look, his face is wiped clean of blood. “Never wanted it with anyone _else?_ ”  
  
Dr Croydon inhales sharply and to his surprise Mikey can feel his cheeks flushing. It’s not… It’s not like that. Is it? He and Gerard have always been close, closer maybe than most brothers, but that was just because of the circumstances. After their parents died, it was mostly just the two of them against the world. And they had always gotten along well, barring normal disagreements and annoyances you got in every relationship, but…  
  
“Of course,” Croydon says faintly, seemingly mostly speaking to herself. “It’s not unheard of. Just… rare.”  
  
Elston is shaking her head in disbelief. “Hansel and Gretel,” she recites as if by rote. “Trac and Nhi Trung, the Wright brothers, Charlotte and Emily Brontë.”  
  
Rare is one word. Scandalous is another. Infamous another still. None of which Mikey would have ever applied to him and Gerard. Now…  
  
Now, he doesn’t care.  
  
He turns back to the glass, to his brother on the other side of it. “Let me back in,” he says.  
  
  
***  
  
  
It’s not as easy as all that, of course.  
  
“Don’t you think Gerard should have a say in this?” Dr Croydon asks, arms crossed over her chest.  
  
“It wasn’t exactly a consideration before!” Mikey feels tense, fighting the urge to just sit still when he could be helping his brother get better right now.  
  
“It wasn’t a possibility before,” she corrects. “But he’s out of the zone now. The sedative will wear off by morning. Hopefully the sleep has given his brain chemistry enough time to stabilise so that he has control over the bonding link and not the other way around.”  
  
She sighs… “I know you’ve made up your mind, Mr Way, but how do you think your brother will feel if he thought, even for a second, that this is something he’d forced on you?”  
  
Mikey slumps, grimacing. She’s right. It would destroy Gerard.  
  
“Research shows that forced bonds, even the ones forced by circumstances, take longer to settle in.”  
  
“You think I can actually talk to him? Properly? To go in and…” He swallows ‘touch him’, suddenly self-conscious over how it sounds.  
  
“We’ll see in the morning. Now, _please_ , Mr Way.” She leans over and gently touches his arm, unbothered by the way he visibly flinches. “Go get some rest.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
The world is… Well, perhaps not quite whole and perfect and as it should be, but at least it no longer feels like a full sensory kaleidoscope. Gerard’s whole body aches and he needs to piss so badly the pain of it almost overwhelms him.  
  
“Bathroom to your left, Mr Way,” a voice from the ceiling says.  
  
Gerard startles badly enough that he almost wets himself on the spot, but as alarming as waking up in an unfamiliar room with an unseen audience is, his bodily urges take priority. He crab-crawls to the bathroom.  
  
Once he’s emptied his bladder he automatically turns to the sink, only to be completely overcome by thirst and he almost chokes in his haste to ladle water into his mouth. Once his initial need is sated, he gets distracted by watching the flow of water from the faucet, the steady trickle of it oddly mesmerising, the swirl of water around the basin as it rushes toward the plughole, the…  
  
“Mr Way?” The voice wrenches him back brutally. The water is still running. “You’ve been in the bathroom for over half an hour now. Are you alright? Do you require assistance?”  
  
With a shudder, Gerard turns the faucet off. There is no mirror, which is probably for the best. He doesn’t really want to know what he looks like right now.  
  
Cautiously, he ventures back to the main room. This time, one of the walls has turned transparent. On the other side of the window there are three people. Gerard recognises none of them.  
  
“Mr Way,” one of them greets him; a middle-aged woman with a closely cropped dark hair and glasses. “I’m Dr Croydon. This is the Jersey Sanctuary.” She gives him a few seconds to absorb that, not that it helps. “How are you feeling?”  
  
  
***  
  
  
They let Mikey in to see him later the same day, after several tests and a long conversation with Dr Croydon. Well, she had done most of the talking, while Gerard sat, elbows on knees, hands hanging between them, fingers laced together to hide the way they kept trembling.  
  
“I’m not… But I’m not a sentinel.” He’d said it at least ten times. And every time the sympathy in Dr Croydon’s eyes deepened by a degree until Gerard could no longer bear to look at her.  
  
“Yes,” she’d replied every time. “Yes, you are, Mr Way.”  
  
Each affirmation that this was indeed real and not some kind of weird nightmare or hallucination made his shoulders slump a bit more, made the hope that maybe he was just tripping from paint fumes, still lying on his studio floor, grow thinner.  
  
It just doesn’t seem possible. Sentinels are… cops, soldiers, activists, folk who went out and ‘protected the tribe’ to use the ancient phrase in the most visible way possible. They aren’t aspiring artists who live in a nice house in the suburbs and have no inclination to go out and fight the good fight.  
  
“Artists, inventors, doctors…” Dr Croydon lists. “There are sentinels in every walk of life. You know this, Mr Way. It’s true that they are over-represented in certain professions but…” She shrugs. “None of that takes away the fact that you went into a full-blown sensory shock, slipping into unconsciousness. Out of which only your brother was able to draw you out.”  
  
If hearing about being a sentinel is out there on the bizarro world of ‘things he never expected to deal with’, then learning about the failed attempts to introduce a guide bond and the one he almost pushed on Mikey is infinitely worse. Gerard’s emotions whiplash from relief to horror and then back again.  
  
“Can I see him?” he asks. “Is it safe?”  
  
  
***  
  
  
It’s not until the evening when Mikey finally walks through the doors. For a moment he looks like a stranger, the forest green scrubs hanging off his skinny frame, his hair kind of fluffy and still wet at the tips. But the first inhale Gerard makes tells him unequivocally that this is Mikey, his brother.  
  
His whole body sways forward as if pulled by an invisible thread. He recoils at the idea, the thought of tying Mikey down like that.  
  
Mikey, however, appears to have no such reservations. He all but jogs over, wrapping himself around Gerard.  
  
“ _Gee_.” It’s choked, more of a sob than a word. Mikey is trembling, his face against Gerard’s neck growing damp and Gerard can taste the salt in the air.  
  
“Hey,” he says, aiming for reassuring but too overcome to really manage it. “Hey, Mikes, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Tentatively, he lets himself hug Mikey in return, every nerve-ending lighting up at the rightness of it, the pleasure of holding his… his brother, singing through his veins.  
  
“It isn’t,” Mikey finally says, raising his head enough to look Gerard in the eye. “But it will be.” There’s something fierce in his gaze, a fire that warms and terrifies Gerard in equal measure.  
  
“Okay,” Mikey says, pulling back just a bit. “I need you to listen to me. You’re not going to like what I’m about to say but… I need you to hear it anyway.” His voice wavers a bit but there’s steel underneath.  
  
Gerard nods cautiously. He has a feeling Mikey is right, but he recognises the expression of absolute determination on his brother’s face. It’s his fault they’re here, so the least Gerard can do is listen.  
  
  
***  
  
  
“Absolutely not!” he says, an hour or so later.  
  
They’re sitting on the pallet, largely because apart for the floor, there is no other furniture in the room. Mikey has promised him that they have privacy for this conversation and since he’s the one who’s spent almost two weeks – Christ, Gerard still can’t believe it even though Mikey’s shown him today’s _New York Times_ on his cell and everything – with these people, Gerard has no choice but to trust his judgement.  
  
“Absolutely yes,” Mikey counters. “How is this even an argument? I know Dr Croydon explained it to you. I know you’re only up and talking now because of me, because of…” He swallows, eyes cutting to the side briefly. “The bond we… already probably have, sort of, so it’s not like you could… with anyone else.”  
  
“Mikey…” Gerard pleads. “I can’t do this to you. You can’t…”  
  
“Do you want to die?” Mikey asks bluntly. “Do you want to die and leave me all alone? Because that’s the only other option here.”  
  
Gerard rears back as if slapped. Then he narrows his eyes. “Do you want me to rape you?” His throat closes around the words, but he forces himself to keep going, because he needs to make Mikey see why what he’s suggesting is impossible. “We both know that’s what guide-sentinel bond involves.”  
  
It’s Mikey’s turn to look upset, but he shakes off the shock quickly enough. “Sex,” he says. “Fucking.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The guide-sentinel bond involves _sex_. It’s not rape if everyone consents.”  
  
Gerard stares at him. “How does ‘otherwise you or the person you love dies’ count as consent?”  
  
Mikey hisses in annoyance, running a hand over his hair. “Alright, so it’s not exactly perfect. But it is what it is and Gerard…” He looks up and there’s pain etched in every line of his face, in the bruised skin under his eyes, in the unhappy downturn of his mouth. “ _I. Don’t. Care._ ”  
  
He reaches over, cupping the back of Gerard’s neck, his thumb slotting into the space behind his ear like it was made for it.  
  
Because, it seems, it was.  
  
“I don’t care about any of that,” Mikey repeats. “Not as much as I care about making sure you don’t _fucking die_. I’m sorry I’m forcing this on you but I’m…” He shakes Gerard a little, for emphasis. “I’m too fucking selfish to let you go just like that when there’s an option. You can be as mad as you like at me, after, if you want but just… _Please?_ ”  
  
And _fuck_ Mikey, _fuck him_ for always knowing just what buttons to press to get Gerard to do what he wants.  
  
“Shit,” Gerard says with a feeling. “For the record, I think this is a bad idea.”  
  
“Noted,” Mikey agrees but there is nothing but relief in his voice when he leans close, resting his forehead against Gerard’s shoulder.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The Sanctuary has special bonding chambers. Of course, it does, Mikey thinks somewhat hysterically, as the doors to one close behind him and Gerard a few days later. The rooms look a bit like a small hotel suite, complete with a king-sized bed that his gaze skitters over, and then returns to as if drawn.  
  
They’ve both gotten a crash course on sentinel and guide lore, complete with various mental exercises. Mikey knows that there is no actual requirement for them to, well, _do_ anything for the bond to take and settle, it’s just that most pairs do. End up. Doing stuff.  
  
Hence the bed. Mikey’s gaze lands on it again and then slides away. From the corner of his eye, he sees Gerard doing the same and feels the back of his neck grow hot.  
  
Despite his earlier bravado, despite being as sure as he can, despite pushing Gerard into this – and he flat out refuses to feel guilty about that because the alternative was not even an option – Mikey isn’t exactly… unaffected, as it were, by the full implications.  
  
And despite talking the positive talk of prior sibling sentinel-guide pairs, neither are the Sanctuary staff. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he’s thinking about the after; how their friends will react, what this means for Mikey’s band or for Gerard’s blossoming art career. But in the end none of it _matters_ as much as Gerard’s life, as keeping him in Mikey’s does.  
  
“Okay,” Gerard says. “How do we…?”  
  
He looks feverish. There’s sweat beading at his hairline and he’s jittering like a drug addict before a fix. The respite after he’d regained consciousness and snapped out of the uncontrollable bonding urge had been brief, and Gerard’s been deteriorating before Mikey’s eyes. He doesn’t need the medical charts Dr Croydon keeps frowning over to know that he’s doing the right thing, he can see it himself in the way Gerard’s attention slips and wavers, how much he struggles at the basic exercises of dialling his senses up or down, how he keeps zoning on unexpected things: the snow crystals against the window, the smell of disinfectant, the rough surface of unpainted wood.  
  
So far, Mikey has had to coax him back no less than five times.  
  
“We just…” Mikey waves a hand around vaguely. “‘Open our minds’ and ‘feel for the bond.’” He barely restrains from rolling his eyes and Gerard’s snort of laughter is reassuring in its normalcy. This kind of pseudoscientific woo woo is well out of both of their comfort zones, and no amount of meditation classes id going to change that.  
  
It’s not that Mikey doesn’t believe it’s real. There’s plenty of empirical evidence, never mind the several sentinel-guide pairs walking around the Sanctuary right now that tell him that the bond is very real. Neurochemical, spiritual, both, it doesn’t matter. No one can really explain it, which means there are no step-by-step instructions of what they are supposed to do. Hence all the vague ‘open yourself up to the bond’ crap.  
  
“Do you…? Uh, we could…” Mikey grits his teeth and settles cross-legged on the bed. He’s not going to do this standing up and only other options are the tiny breakfast nook in the corner or the fucking floor.  
  
After a moment’s hesitation, Gerard climbs onto the mattress too. His knees brush against Mikey’s and even through two layers of clothing, Mikey can feel he’s burning up.  
  
“Are you sure?” he asks. “We don’t…”  
  
“I’m sure,” Mikey says. “We do.” He closes his eyes and reaches for Gerard’s hands.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Maybe it’s because his body has come to the end of its tether, or maybe it’s because he’s allowed now, no longer having to hold back and guard against himself, but the first touch of Mikey’s skin against his snaps all of Gerard’s senses into focus.  
  
And that focus is Mikey; the silky smoothness of his skin, the blue criss-cross of veins underneath, the deep _thump-thump-thump_ of Mikey’s heart, so much faster than normal. He can smell the traces of shampoo and product in Mikey’s hair and below that Mikey’s own scent, something warm and spicy-sweet on his tongue.  
  
But it’s not just the here and now that Gerard is sensing. Memories crowd in, floating up like bubbles to the surface of his mind, full of light and days, years, decades of lives entwining. He can hear the sound Mikey’s fingers make on the strings of his bass as clearly as if Mikey had picked up the instrument, can feel blisters on the tips of Mikey’s fingers, the way they had bled and then hardened to calluses over time. There’s a jigsaw of memories, hundreds of them, of Mikey’s body fitting against Gerard’s; on the couch, back of the car, shoulder to shoulder at a gig, under the covers, curled together like parentheses. He remembers the curve of Mikey’s neck bent over magazines, cell phone, their parent’s grave; the bitter salt of shared grief. He remembers the burn of grazed knees, sharp scent of alcohol from the first time they got drunk, together of course like everything else. It all rushes in; a jumble of images and sounds and smells, more than he can differentiate, all overlaid with the reality of Mikey here and now.  
  
Together it forms something greater than the sum of its parts, the threads weaving around each other until thet become a rope, a steel cable tying them together but still apart. Gerard _aches_ with the need to get closer, open, open, reaching out, like jumping off a cliff and trusting someone to catch him.   
  
Mikey does. There’s a surge, a tidal wave of sensations and memories rising to meet Gerard, different and yet the same. Mikey’s hands come up to cup Gerard’s face, forehead pressed against his. ‘Gee, _Gee_.’ There are no words, but the message is as clear as water, as strong as the blood between them. ‘ _I’m here_.’ It’s an entreaty, an invocation, Mikey reaching for him in return.  
  
They wrap around each other, winding together, tighter, _tighter_ until Gerard can’t tell where he ends and Mikey begins. The bond _snaps_ into place; the sensation of it akin to a lightning or a crack of a whip, pure and absolute. For a split second Gerard can seehearsmelltastefeel himself through Mikey’s senses until even that fades away, darkness rushing up to meet them both.  
  
  
***  
  
  
They wake up tangled together on the bed. Gerard’s arms are locked tight around Mikey’s waist, his nose pressed into the hollow of his throat, breath tickling his collarbones. Mikey’s thigh is pressed between Gerard’s, his hands flat against his back, the bare skin warm against his palms.  
  
For a moment everything is still and perfect and calm. Gerard’s breathing is even, the fever from last night completely gone. Mikey can feel him. Not just physically but inside his mind, a coiled presence slowly growing brighter as Gerard wakes up, a sensation of warmth and contentment wrapping around them both until Mikey makes a little ‘ _nngghh_ ’ sound, curling closer.  
  
It doesn’t last. The moment Gerard is fully conscious, the bond between them withdraws, leaving Mikey shivering from the cold, suddenly feeling exposed as if someone had snatched all the covers away. Of course, the bond isn’t completely gone, but it’s as if Gerard has pulled a window closed, leaving only the smallest possible crack open between them.  
  
He extricates himself from Mikey’s limbs carefully, clearly thinking him still asleep. Mikey assumes it’s a consequence of deliberately not paying attention to the information their connection must be giving him.  
  
Mikey sighs and sits up once Gerard is in the adjoining bathroom. He guesses it’s true what they say and sentinel-guide bond only fixes some things.  
  
“It worked,” he tells Gerard when he comes back out. “I would ask how you’re feeling but I can sense that you’re better already.” He raises his eyebrows, goading on purpose.  
  
“Oh, uh, you can?” Gerard seems startled by that.  
  
Mikey almost rolls his eyes and calls him an idiot but then decides to just push a strong impression of fond frustration through the bond and see if… Oh yes. Judging by the way Gerard’s eyes widen and the small, sheepish smile that crosses his face, that works just as well.  
  
The bond doesn’t give telepathy and thank fuck for that. Mikey had been relieved to see that myth debunked in the leaflets Dr Croydon had made him read. They won’t be able to hear each other’s thoughts, but the bond enhances empathy between the participants, allowing emotions to pass through in a way that goes well beyond just reading someone’s body language. It’s only supposed to get stronger with use as well and if this is where they’re starting… Mikey doesn’t know if that’s exhilarating or fucking terrifying. Probably both.   
  
Before Mikey has a chance to suggest they experiment further, there’s a knock on the door and he hears Dr Croydon’s voice calling good morning. He sighs, his relief and frustration at the interruption reflected through the bond.  
  
  
***  
  
  
They’re not allowed to leave for home right away but neither are they kept longer than necessary.  
  
Dr Croydon does a number of tests, including a full MRI on both of them, and declares the bond successfully established and Gerard as stable as can be expected. Nonetheless, they get a full folder of exercises to safely work on Gerard’s senses and his control of them now that the guide bond is in place to reduce the risk of a zone.  
  
Elston and Ruiz try to recruit them for several courses, at least half of which feature the words ‘protect and serve’ in the title. They mean well but neither Gerard nor Mikey harbor any desire for a change of that magnitude, at least not yet. Mikey takes the offered leaflets though. They haven’t yet spoken about the future, not in any meaningful way, so maybe it’s best to keep their options open.  
  
It’s less than two days later that they are finally back home. Neither of them has much in the way of bags. Gerard had obviously been taken to the Sanctuary in nothing but his paint-splattered clothes (now clean but still very colorful) and Mikey had left most of his stuff with the band, having taken only hand luggage for his hurried flight back.  
  
Ray had texted him about a week ago, saying they were back and all of Mikey’s stuff was at his, ready to be picked up. There were more texts of course, from his bandmates, and other friends who had heard the news from them. Mikey had made a point of keeping everyone updated with short and to the point messages. The idea of actually having to talk to someone about it had felt impossible at the time. He couldn’t imagine explaining out loud what it had felt like to see Gerard lying there so still he might as well have been dead already, or to be given an opportunity to save him (to save them both) except it came with a hell of a catch… Yeah, no. Short, factual text-messages were the way to go. His last one had been met with rows of exclamation marks, cautious expressions of relief and flat out silence from others. Mikey hadn’t yet plucked up the courage to reply to any of them.  
  
“Fuck,” Gerard says as they stand on the steps, pawing through pockets and bags for keys. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed fresh air, man.” He tilts his head toward the grey sky, sleet falling on his face and melting almost immediately.  
  
Mikey snorts, carefully not looking at the way water makes Gerard’s eyelashes clump together, the white stretch of his bared neck. Instead, he focuses on finding the keys, finally making a triumphant noise when he fishes them out of the bottom of his duffel.  
  
The door opens without a protest but the stink of paint that greets them almost makes him gag. And if he finds it this bad… He turns to Gerard only to see him halfway back to the gate, hands on his knees as he retches.  
  
Alright then, no time like the present for those exercises Dr Croydon had so painstakingly drilled into them.  
  
Mikey hurries over and leans down enough to talk directly in Gerard’s ear. “You’re alright,” he says, rubbing a soothing circle over Gerard’s back. Repetitive touch can be very grounding, apparently, and it’s not like it’s anything he hasn’t done for his brother before. “I’m here. Just focus on my voice. Dial up your hearing, just like we practiced. Three, four. Shut out everything else. Five, six. There you go.”  
  
Gerard’s breathing has slowed down but he still looks nauseous.  
  
“Now, we need to focus on your sense of smell and taste. I know, I know they’re bad now. That’s why we need to dial them down. You don’t need to smell or taste anything right now.” Mikey brushes Gerard’s hair out of his eyes. “C’mon, smell first. That will take care most of the taste too, hmm? Bet you’re way too high now, maybe at eight?” The number are arbitrary and entirely subjective of course, but the idea of ten point scale gives a usable reference, something easily visualised. “Take it down to seven. Six. Five. Doing so well, that’s probably better already. Four. Three. Two. Keep it there. Good, good… Hey. Gee, you with me?”  
  
Gerard is standing up again, wiping his eyes. “Jesus, that was like having an art supply shop explode on my face.” He shudders, reaching out for Mikey blindly, his fingers latching on to the collar of his coat. “Thank you. Really.”  
  
Mikey swallows, reeling a little from the unadulterated sense of gratitude and relief that’s flooding the bond between them. Apparently, almost zoning means Gerard forgets to keep a rein on his side of the connection. “It’s… You’re welcome,” he finishes lamely. “Do you need help with your sense of taste too?”  
  
“Nah, I dialled it down a bit but the smell took care of that mostly. Just like you said.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Mikey says. “If I’d thought of it, I would’ve asked someone to come and clean before…”  
  
“Hey, no, I didn’t think of it either.” Gerard shakes his head. “I don’t… I don’t even know how… Who found me?” he asks.  
  
“The delivery guy, the next morning. You hadn’t closed the front door properly behind you when you went back in after the accident. Lucky really. He saw the door ajar, got suspicious, called and, when there was no answer, went it. Called the ambulance after he found you.”  
  
Gerard nods, his gaze wandering to the badly damaged tree opposite their gate. “The accident… Do you know if the driver made it?”  
  
“I don’t,” Mikey admits. “Bet we can find out though. But first… Maybe you should wait out here while I go and clean up?” The weather is picking up, sleet coming down faster now. It’s hardly ideal but lesser of two evils.  
  
“I’m… I think I’ll be okay,” Gerard says. “I can barely smell anything now and I don’t really want to stand here getting wet while you do all the work.”  
  
Mikey leaves Gerard in the kitchen, cautiously investigating the fridge contents, after making him swear his sense of smell is still turned right down. He can’t imagine zoning on the smell of soured milk would be any better than paint fumes.  
  
The cleaning products are under the sink and after collecting them, Mikey sets off to tackle the studio. He lifts the collar of his t-shirt over his nose and nudges the door open.  
  
The inside looks like a small, very colorful bomb has gone off. With a sigh, Mikey drops to all fours and gets to work.  
  
A half an hour later he’s sweaty and tired and the room looks largely the same. Turns out that when you leave oil paint spills unattended for three weeks, they’re not easily removed. Paint tubes, brushes, pieces of the broken easel, papers, anything that had been unlucky to land on the wet paint is now firmly stuck there.  
  
“Are you still conscious?” Gerard’s voice calls from the kitchen.  
  
“No!” Mikey yells back. A stupid question deserves a stupid answer. If he did actually pass out, he has no doubt that Gerard would feel it through the bond immediately. “I think the floor is a bust though,” Mikey adds, getting to his feet. “Maybe call the insurance tomorrow.”  
  
“It’s fine.” Gerard’s voice is closer now, like he’s inching down the hall. “Just leave it.”  
  
Mikey agrees, closing the door behind himself and sealing the mess out of sight and smell.  
  
  
***  
  
  
In a way, nothing changes. The house is the same. Having to pay the bills, buy groceries, go to work is the same. The one saving grace is that the Sanctuary stays are free. The benefits of maintaining a healthy sentinel and guide populations far outweigh the costs of making it happen, and indeed the costs of having untrained, unbonded sentinels either slipping to zone coma or going berserk all over the place.  
  
Mikey makes some calls and picks up some shifts at a couple of the local music venues. Some nights he’s bartending, some afternoons he’s booking gigs, some mornings he’s mopping the floors. It’s hardly glamorous but it gets the bills paid. Gerard gets in touch with his agent and, once they’ve rigged up a temporary studio in the corner of the lounge for him, slowly picks up his work again.  
  
When they’re both home and conscious, they watch movies, play games, hang out. Same old.  
  
Except not. Because in another way… _Everything_ changes.  
  
The first time Mikey leaves the house to go to the grocery store, he gets two blocks away before he has to turn the car around, Gerard’s pain and panic flooding the bond like an ink stain.  
  
Gerard is halfway down the first block, clearly running after him. Mikey pulls the car over and Gerard hauls him out and into his arms like they haven’t seen each other for years. Once they’re back in the house, he practically drags Mikey inside, throws him onto the couch and then proceeds to climb on top of him. He’s breathing hard, making little growling noises at each exhale, and there’s that same unseeing glaze in his eyes that Mikey remembers from the Sanctuary.  
  
It doesn’t last long, luckily, and within a couple of minutes Gerard is shaking his head as if coming out of a trance, frowning at Mikey.  
  
“What happened?” he asks. “Weren’t you going shopping?”  
  
A call to Dr Croydon, who passes Gerard to Elston for a long chat, later, it turns out that distance is something they’re going to have to work for after bonding.  
  
“She says it’ll get easier,” Gerard says miserably, sitting across the kitchen table. “That we’ll be fine with being up to a day apart. Twenty miles or so.”  
  
About the distance a healthy person can travel on foot in a day. Makes perfect sense, evolutionarily speaking. And that’s okay now, with Mikey working part-time jobs locally, but if he ever wants to head out with the band again, they’re going to have a problem.  
  
Judging by the hang-dog expression on Gerard’s face and the corresponding guilt coming through the bond, he’s reached the same conclusion. Mikey can’t bring himself to talk about it now, though.  
  
One thing at a time. “Okay,” he says, forcing a shaky smile. “We’ll work something out. I guess, now… Grocery store? Perfect practice for dialling down your senses to deal with crowds, eh?”  
  
Gerard goes with Mikey food shopping and only almost zones out twice, once by the fishmongers, and then at the reams of multicolored tinsel at the Christmas display.  
  
It’s not the only place Gerard goes. At work, he’s like Mikey’s shadow, sitting at the corner table with headphones and sketchpad if it’s day time and quiet, or at the back office during the evenings when the music and crowds make the places way too stressful. It’s a good thing Mikey has some favors to collect, although he also finds that mentioning the new sentinel-guide status opens more doors than he expected, both figuratively and literally.  
  
“You must be sick of me,” Gerard says one evening when they get back late, both exhausted.  
  
“Never,” Mikey says. If he’s sick of anything it’s Gerard’s unhappiness and unwarranted guilt, which make him miserable in turn, the feedback loop shifting the connection between them out of joint in a way that _hurts_.  
  
“You can’t have wanted this,” Gerard continues as though Mikey hadn’t said a word. “A burden of a brother who can’t even—”  
  
“Shut up!” Mikey shoves himself right into Gerard’s personal space. “Don’t you dare say that! I’ve never once felt like that, which you’d fucking know if you would actually use the bond instead shielding yourself constantly!”  
  
“Mikes…?” Gerard leans back enough to catch his eye, but his arms come around Mikey automatically.  
  
Mikey burrows closer, unhesitatingly shoving his hands under Gerard’s shirt, sighing in relief when he finds bare skin.  
  
This is another thing that has changed; the need for physical connection. It’s not entirely new of course. They’ve always been affectionate; hugging each other hello and goodbye, leaning close enough to practically qualify as cuddling, but now the need to touch is a constant itch under his skin, one he knows Gerard shares. He didn’t even notice it at first, the regular brushes of arms, chins hooked over shoulders, falling asleep with their limbs firmly knotted together, it all just sort of… happened. It’s not really unexpected either; touch is key to how guides help sentinels control their senses; the anchor amidst a sensory storm. It’s only natural that it spills over to everyday interactions.  
  
What’s frustrating is that Gerard doesn’t seem to accept it.  
  
“Gee… Why are you fighting the bond?” Mikey asks, letting himself hide his face against the stuffy front of Gerard’s jacket, smelling smoke and paint and the outdoors. Gerard’s head comes to rest against his and fleetingly Mikey feels lips brush against his hair. He revels in the fact that no matter what Gerard says or how much he’s trying to hide, he’s not pushing Mikey away when they’re like this.  
  
Quite the opposite in fact. Gerard’s embrace tightens, likely unconsciously, and Mikey shivers with pleasure. This too is different. Gerard’s touch has always felt good of course, safe, familiar. But not like _this_ , like a low level electric current running from his head to his toes, lighting up every nerve-ending every time Gerard lays a hand on him. Or if it had, Mikey had pushed it away from his conscious mind.  
  
Now…  
  
“You know why,” Gerard says. “I’m scared.” His voice cracks on the admission, not that it’s anything Mikey didn’t already know. “Everything’s changed. Everything’s different. I don’t want…”  
  
“You’re not going to lose me, you idiot.” Mikey feels like shaking Gerard. “You’re my brother, my… My sentinel.” Mikey realises it’s the first time he’s used the address out loud as soon as it leaves his mouth. He’s thought it before, to himself, testing and liking the sound of it, even in the quiet of his own mind. Hearing it now just confirms that. It sounds good. Feels right.  
  
Gerard inhales sharply and his arms tighten further. “That just means you don’t have a choice,” he says dejectedly.  
  
“God!” Mikey honestly wants to throw his hands up in frustration but instead he digs his nails into Gerard’s back, hard enough to make him flinch. “We went through all of this! I _had_ a choice. I chose _you_.” He can feel the way the words hit their mark, something possessive flaring through the bond, and he presses his advantage. “You can’t accept some some choices but not others based on what you think is best for me. That’s not how it works, Gerard!” He shakes his brother, emphasising the point. “If you respect my right to say no, then you’ve got to let me say yes as well. And accept that I mean it when I do.”  
  
Gerard shudders, curling around Mikey. “Alright,” he whispers, lips brushing Mikey’s earlobe. “I’ll try, Mikey. _Guide_. I’ll try.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Gerard does. Honestly, he does. But the bond is not very co-operative, demanding all or nothing, when Gerard would prefer something in between. Mikey is right; keeping himself completely apart is doing neither of them any favors. As soon as he opens himself up to the bond, Mikey’s certainty comes rushing through, his firm belief in this being his choice, his utter lack of resentment even when Gerard follows him to another interview with a potential band. At least this time he can make himself sit in the Starbucks opposite to the building where Mikey’s meeting is at.  
  
The café is full of Christmas shoppers and tuning out the cheerful sounds of jingle bells playing on the radio had been the first thing he’d done, walking in. Such progress. Brave sentinel managing to order a double shot caramel latte all on his own. Won’t his guide be proud.  
  
Gerard’s fingers tighten around the cup. Even thinking it – _his_ guide – causes a curl of possessiveness to flare up his stomach, bright and hot.  
  
And therein lies the problem.  
  
He can’t even pretend that it’s an entirely new problem. Just one that their new status as sentinel and guide has dragged into the light. Like it went digging for all of Gerard’s most closely guarded sins and plucked this one out like a prize jewel.  
  
And maybe it’s inevitable, maybe he can’t fight four-hundred-thousand years of evolution. But he’s trying anyway.  
  
Gerard takes another sip of the coffee, determinedly dialling his sense of taste down until he can at least pretend to enjoy the mix of coffee and milk and syrup almost as much as before. Although, truth be told, he’d ordered it today more out of habit than anything else. Nowadays, they’ve discovered that Gerard’s palette is much happier with teas. Herbal ones at that.  
  
Christ.  
  
God, he misses smoking. Turns out enhanced senses meant a whole new appreciation for the smoke-free environments. He’d tried, against all advice of course, but the first drag had been like swallowing sandpaper dipped in molten tar. He’d choked, lungs spasming as he’d coughed and heaved, flooding his mouth with a dirty, revolting taste that had lasted for days. The experience had achieved what no previous healthcare lectures from a nurse or doctor had before. He hadn’t picked up a pack since, no matter the craving.  
  
Mikey had resolutely bought nicotine patches for both of them, out of solidarity and necessity. One more thing he’s given up because of Gerard. Regardless of whether Mikey himself sees it like that – and Gerard knows he doesn’t – that’s what it is.  
  
Gerard takes one more sip of his now lukewarm drink and tries not to gag at the way the congealing milk coats the inside of his mouth. He keeps an eye on the door to the building opposite. The bond tells him that Mikey is getting closer. Tentatively, he opens his end a little more even though it means his own morose feelings will leak through. In return he gets a sense of Mikey’s mood; pride, excitement, anticipation. The talks with the band must have gone well then.  
  
By the time Mikey gets to the street level, Gerard is already there, waiting. It’s been an hour, tops, but he still can’t help but pull Mikey in for a hug, inhaling his scent hungrily. He makes sure to get a hand against bare skin, even if it’s just a brief squeeze to the back of Mikey’s neck.  
  
“Alright?” he asks, trying to keep the hug brief.  
  
Not that Mikey seems to mind, relaxed and smiling against Gerard. “All good,” he says. “They’re going to sign up with the club for the spring, before their summer tour. I’ll get the paperwork together before the holidays.”  
  
“That’s great,” Gerard says. He doesn’t care about the band, but he cares about Mikey being happy with the outcome. “Uh, speaking of tours…” It’s the best opening he’s had for a while. “Have you spoken with the guys? About the next tour?”  
  
Mikey presses his lips together, a brief flare of annoyance coming through the bond. “Gee… You can’t leave your work. And,” He raises a hand to cut off the anticipated interruption and Gerard snaps his mouth shut. “You can’t exactly work on the road either. What are you going to do? Try to draw with the sketchpad on your knees at the back of a cramped van, rattling down the highway with four other guys practically piled on top of you? Like that’s going to work.”  
  
Gerard sighs. All of that is true, but keeping Mikey chained to Jersey because of him doesn’t sit right either. “There’s got to be something,” he says.  
  
“We’ve got time to figure it out,” Mikey says, which is a not so subtle code for ‘this conversation is over’.  
  
Gerard lets it go for now and follows him to the car. Maybe Mikey is right and a solution will present itself with time.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Back home Mikey declares it Food Hour, an announcement which Gerard receives with mixed feelings. On one hand, it’s bound to get the taste of milk and sugar out of his mouth. On the other hand, they are both awful when it comes to cooking.  
  
Okay, maybe not quite awful anymore but they are still a long way off from Masterchef, not that that’s the goal. For now, Gerard is happy with ‘palatable’.  
  
Another consequence of his sentinel senses coming online is a sudden and violent intolerance of most of the things he used to live on before; tinned soup, macaroni cheese out of the packet, take-away pizza… He’s gotten pretty good at controlling his senses, enough so that he doesn’t actually have to spit it out like the first week, but none of that stuff is really enjoyable anymore.  
  
Hence their (mis)adventures in cooking and just basic taste-testing.  
  
“Okay!” Mikey says enthusiastically. “Today’s fantastic five test subjects are…” With a flourish, he produces a grocery bag from under the counter like some kind of magician. “Oranges!” He tosses one to Gerard who miraculously manages to catch it without too much fumbling. “Turkey sausages. Broad beans.”  
  
Gerard makes a face.  
  
“Yeah I know, but this recipe here,” Mikey waves the _Cooking for Sentinels_ book Ruiz had sent them and that had turned out to be surprisingly useful, “promises a stew that even beginners can’t mess up so…”  
  
Gerard waves a hand, watching Mikey pull out a large red bell pepper from the bag as well. It sounds like it could be nice but they’ve not done so well with beans and other vegetables with a particularly bitter flavours in the past.  
  
“Okay, that’s four,” he says, cautiously tuning into his sense of smell and letting in the intense scent of citrus from the orange he’s still holding. It’s not bad, clean and bright somehow, unexpectedly making his mouth water. “What else do you have in that bag of yours?”  
  
Mikey reaches into the bag but then stops. “Actually… Let’s call it a surprise. For dessert.”  
  
Gerard grins. In a minute, he’s going to go and help Mikey with the cooking. Well, making a mess of the kitchen and hopefully not setting anything on fire. That has only happened once but neither of them are keen to repeat the experience. The smoke had completely overwhelmed him and it had taken Mikey several hours to bring him out of the zone.  
  
“Eat your starter,” Mikey tells him. He’s putting the oranges into a fruit bowl – they have a fruit bowl now! Well, a bowl where they keep fruit, anyway – unsuccessfully trying to juggle three of them.  
  
The oranges go flying and Gerard laughs. “Ah, the famous grace of guides! So deft, so lithe!” Sentinels aren’t the only ones burdened with stereotypes, and just as Gerard is as far as possible from a superpowered protector of his tribe as can be, Mikey doesn’t fit the role of ethereal nurturer either. Unless you count this very practical endeavour to keep both of them fed.  
  
Gerard peels the orange, the scent and taste increasing as more of the flesh is revealed. There’s a tingling sensation at the back of his teeth that tells him he’s either going to hate or love this. When he breaks the orange in half, one of the segments splits open and juice runs down his hand, all the way to his wrist.  
  
“I’ll show you deft and lithe,” Mikey mutters threateningly. He’s reaching under the table where the oranges had rolled. The back of his t-shirt rides up, revealing a stripe of white skin, the first few vertebrae almost disturbingly clear on Mikey’s back when he’s bent over like that.  
  
Gerard instinctively licks orange juice of his hand and somehow the taste of it and the sight of his guide hit him at the same time; the sweet sour sunlight flavor bursting on his tongue, making him wonder what it would be like, mixed with the salt on Mikey’s skin. Just the image of it; the sticky juice running down the slope of Mikey’s back, the sharp peak of collarbone, the inside of arm where…  
  
Gerard sucks an orange slice into his mouth and almost moans.  
  
“There’s tons of vitamins in citrus fruit,” Mikey is saying. “Even if you don’t like them, it would be worth trying so… Oh!” He straightens up so fast he almost hits his head on the cupboard door, avoiding concussion by the narrowest margin.  
  
“Uh.” He’s staring at Gerard, eyes blown wide and dark. “I guess you like oranges.”  
  
With a jolt Gerard realises he’s forgotten to keep even the barest rein on his emotions, which must be flooding the bond between them. Pleasure, lust, _hunger_. He pushes another slice into his mouth, hums something vaguely affirmative and tries to shove the permanently unlocked door between them at least a little more closed.  
  
It’s not exactly easy, not when Mikey is staring at him like that, not when the bond between them tells him what _his guide wants._ Why isn’t Gerard providing like a sentinel should, why is he _denying_ …?  
  
Gerard wrenches his gaze away, dropping the rest of the orange onto the table. “Let’s… Let’s just cook dinner.” He can hear the way his voice wavers. “I’m just going to go… Wash my hands,” he finishes weakly.  
  
  
***  
  
  
By the time he’s back, hands no longer sticky though the scent of citrus still clings to his skin, Mikey has cleared the table and laid out the ingredients for the stew.  
  
“Okay,” he says, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “You can cut the bell pepper. Have a taste too, see how it agrees with you raw.” He nods at the waiting chopping board.  
  
Gerard nods, obediently picking up the knife. Even though he’s got his emotions under control again, the bond between them is still there, always there, and through it he can feel something like determination and focus, underlaid with exasperation.  
  
“The recipe says to simmer the beans and ‘skim off the foam’.” Mikey frowns at the book. “I didn’t know beans… bubble?”  
  
Gerard shrugs, equally puzzled.  
  
Despite bean foam turning out to be both real _and_ disgusting, they end up with an edible stew. Mikey adds pepper to his bowlful but Gerard is happy with the flavors as they come. He still kind of misses take-away pizza, but it’s more the idea of it than the reality.  
  
“A plus,” Mikey says, patting his stomach. “Would eat again.”  
  
“You’re in luck then, because we’ve got leftovers for at least two days.”  
  
“Breakfast stew!”  
  
“That’s… Yeah, okay, probably going to happen,” Gerard concedes, laughing.  
  
They sit in silence for a while, just digesting, feet on the coffee table and empty dishes stacked on the floor. They may use the kitchen more now than ever before but they both still prefer to eat on the couch, sitting side by side while the TV murmurs on the background. Right now, it’s old reruns of Futurama and Gerard finds the familiar plots and colors kind of comforting. Maybe it’s the routine; watching TV with his brother, belly full of food and the house otherwise quiet around them. Well, quiet if Gerard deliberately blocks out the myriad noises of mice under the floorboards, the gurgling of plumbing, the way the wind howls outside, making the trees and gates creak, the chains on their neighbor’s swing set clanging.  
  
He focuses on the worn weave of the couch covers under him, the rhythm of Mikey’s breathing, the cadence of the dialogue from the TV instead, feeling himself relax.  
  
It’s not until they’re well into the second episode and Gerard can feel his eyelids drooping until he remembers about the promised dessert.  
  
“Hey Mikes,” he says, rolling his head to the side.  
  
“What?” His brother’s profile is half-hidden by flickering shadows, and when he turns to look at Gerard, his eyes seem black and bottomless.  
  
“The fifth fantastic food item?” Mikey’s hand is resting so close to his, it’s easy to just extend his fingers and give it a friendly nudge. Just because. “You said there was a surprise?”  
  
“Oh. Yeah, I…” Mikey is looking down at their hands, his fingers slowly, deliberately slipping between Gerard’s. He squeezes once, then lets go, getting up. “I’ll go get it.”  
  
The curl of want is back, but it’s a lazy, warm simmer now, just sitting there at the bottom of his stomach. He’s still scared, still angry over losing (winning?) at the genetic lottery he didn’t even know he’d been playing, but all that feels distant, far outside of the quiet bubble of safety and warmth they’ve created.  
  
Mikey comes back, a thin, rectangular packet of something in his hands.  
  
Gerard sits up, trying to catch sight of the writing on top of it but Mikey hides it behind his back.  
  
“Surprise,” he reminds Gerard, sitting down sideways on the couch, one knee bent so that he’s facing Gerard. “Close your eyes?”  
  
Gerard can feel his eyebrows rising, his breath catching a little at the implications. “Are you…?”  
  
“Don’t you trust your guide, sentinel?” Mikey is smiling to take the sting off the question, but he means it too.  
  
Gerard closes his eyes. The bond between them flushes with Mikey’s satisfaction and his pride, a thread of anticipation running through it all.  
  
“Are you focused on me, sentinel?” Mikey’s voice is low, soft. Inviting. He’s getting very good at using just the right cadence to catch Gerard’s attention. Guide speak, they call it; tone, tempo, depth of feeling, all of it aimed to pull a sentinel from a zone, to help them focus their senses as needed.  
  
“Yes.” Gerard reaches out, finding the solid line of Mikey’s thigh unerringly even with his eyes closed. If he concentrates, he can almost see his guide’s heat signature, can tell where he is just from the minute changes in the air temperature.  
  
He can hear the way Mikey’s heartbeat ticks up at the contact too.  
  
There’s a rustle of paper and then a sharp crack of something being broken. Gerard inhales deeply, first through his nose and then through his mouth.  
  
“Chocolate,” he says, the deep, dark scent-taste of it unmistakable.  
  
“Yeah,” Mikey says. He doesn’t sound upset that Gerard figured it out. “The good stuff. Eighty-five percent cocoa. Organic.” There’s another snap as Mikey presumably breaks off another piece. “Open your mouth, Gee.”  
  
Gerard swallows. Okay, this is… Not what he expected. The atmosphere between them grows heavy, tense. He shouldn’t… But the idea of it, of Mikey feeding him by hand, is so close to what he imagined earlier that it’s impossible to resist.  
  
Gerard let’s his mouth fall open, just a little.  
  
Mikey makes a noise, a quiet hitching whine at the back of his throat that is well out of the hearing range of normal humans. It slices through Gerard like a hot knife. His grip on Mikey’s thigh tightens of its own volition.  
  
Mikey shifts and Gerard can sense him leaning closer, can feel the warmth of his hand in front of his face, the chocolatey aroma growing more intense. He still gasps, when the piece touches his bottom lip and is pushed inside, sitting smooth on his tongue but starting to melt almost immediately.  
  
The taste is indescribable. He’s had chocolate before of course, even dark chocolate, but nothing that compares to this. It’s like being dropped into a dark lake, or maybe sinking into black earth; bitter and rich and pulling him deep.  
  
“Gee?” Mikey sounds concerned. “Is it too much? Do you—?”  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Gerard breathes. “More.”  
  
There’s a beat of silence and then Mikey’s hand is back with another piece. This time Gerard leans forward and takes it from him, teeth closing around the chocolate, lips catching on the tips of Mikey’s fingers, cool against the hotness of Gerard’s mouth.  
  
They both moan. Gerard can taste the trace of Mikey on the surface of the chocolate before it melts on his tongue.  
  
When Mikey reaches out with the third piece, Gerard captures his wrist, holds his hand still and slowly, deliberately tastes Mikey’s fingers first, tongue swirling over each whorl, catching on the jagged edge of thumbnail.  
  
“ _Gee_.” It’s a plea and an acknowledgement, all rolled into one.  
  
When Gerard finally closes his mouth around the chocolate, Mikey pushes his own fingers in after it. The slow slide of them over Gerard’s tongue is unbearably good, his guide’s taste stronger, closer than he’s ever had before.  
  
He wants more.  
  
Gerard sucks on Mikey’s fingers without hesitation, revelling in the noise it wrenches from Mikey, the way he can feel him sway closer. Desire – his, Mikey’s, he can’t tell the difference anymore –surges through the bond, white hot and sharp enough to draw blood, each back and forth loop ramping it higher.  
  
“Gee,” Mikey says again. “ _Sentinel, please_.”  
  
Gerard opens his eyes.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Mikey can admit that he’s been deliberately pushing it. Earlier in the kitchen, and now, the trick with the chocolate entirely planned. It’s been over a month since their bonding, well over a decade since he first looked at his brother and felt the painful stab of want for something more than was his to take. He’d done such a good job at hiding it, pushing it down and away, covering it with other things, other people. But none of that stands a chance in the face of this; a connection that leaves no space for secrets, no room unlocked. But that’s okay, because behind each door Mikey finds his brother, waiting.  
  
It’s what makes him bold; the sure knowledge that it had never been just him. Sentinel-guide bonds are not made by just one person. That’s why none of the others had taken. And Mikey had been ready to give up having Gerard just for himself, been prepared to share him if it would’ve meant saving his life. But he hadn’t had to, in the end.  
  
Maybe this is what it means to have your cake and eat it too.  
  
He watches his brother’s mouth, the smear of chocolate on his lips, still wrapped tightly around Mikey’s fingers and he can’t breathe from the sheer want. The same desperate need is reflected in Gerard’s eyes when he finally pulls off, his tongue soft and insistent. Gerard curls it into the space between Mikey’s fingers, pushing them apart almost lewdly.  
  
“Guide,” he says, voice rough, face half in light, half in shadow. “Come here.”  
  
He tugs on Mikey’s wrist and Mikey goes willingly, free hand on Gerard’s shoulder for balance as he kneels on the couch and then swings a leg over Gerard’s lap, straddling him.  
  
They both groan at the contact. Mikey settles his weight on Gerard’s thighs and their bellies press together as he slides closer without hesitation. Their bond is wide open and everything it tells him is good, yes, more. It’s incredibly heady, to know he’s wanted, no second guessing like this, Gerard’s feelings laid bare. Even the dark twist of possessiveness running through it all doesn’t scare him. It’s only right. He is Gerard’s guide. Gerard is his sentinel. There are whole lawbooks written on the unbreakable sanctity of that very connection.  
  
Gerard lets go of his wrist, only to wrap his arms around Mikey’s waist, hands slipping under his shirt. His fingers dance up Mikey’s spine, circling each vertebrae and making him arch into the touch like a cat being stroked. Gerard’s head is tipped back to the couch cushion, eyes lowered to dark slits as he watches Mikey, his mouth open and his chest heaving. When Mikey buries his hands into Gerard’s hair the noise he makes is low and indecent. His grip on Mikey’s back tightens briefly but he makes no move to pull him down.  
  
With sudden clarity Mikey realises Gerard is waiting for him to close the distance, can still feel the lingering worry about _choice_ , and he would roll his eyes but rolling his hips is going to be a more persuasive argument right now.  
  
The results are satisfying. Gerard bucks up, the back of his head thumping against the couch cushions. It’s a look Mikey wouldn’t mind enjoying at his leisure. But some other time. Right now, he needs to get his mouth on Gerard.  
  
“Gee,” he says. “Sentinel. Are you focused on me?” he echoes the question from earlier and when Gerard nods, eyes blown wide, Mikey nods, shaky but making a good show at being in control. “Good,” he says and leans down to kiss his brother.  
  
The first kiss is slow, just a brush of lips, taste of chocolate still lingering to Gerard’s. Mikey groans, licking it off, his hands cupping Gerard’s face. When he dives in for a repeat, Gerard is already open for it, mouth parting greedily, all wet heat and slick slide of tongues.  
  
By the third kiss they are both desperate, straining to get closer, hands clutching at clothes and leaving bruises under them. They’re both hard, Mikey can feel it and when he swivels his hips again Gerard growls and the kiss turns into a stinging bite. He expects things to escalate at that but somehow they slow down instead, like crossing this one line was enough.  
  
For now, at least.  
  
Gerard’s mouth gentles, wanders from Mikey’s lips down to his jaw, side of his neck, tongue dipping out to lap at the thin skin over tendons. He hums, deep and satisfied, and their bond hums right along, with the same frequency of love and contentment.  
  
“Well,” says Mikey after their hearts have slowed to a regular rhythm. “I’m going to put chocolate in the ‘yes’ column on the Great Food Experiment.”  
  
Gerard huffs a laugh, his breath tickling Mikey’s ear and making him squirm. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?” he asks.  
  
“Nope.” Mikey is grinning now. “I’m going to send Green and Black’s a thank you note. Maybe they’ll sponsor a sanctuary.”  
  
  
***  
  
  
Mikey isn’t expecting it to take long before things progress beyond the first base.  
  
He is wrong.  
  
Gerard is freer with his touches now, reaching out with purpose rather than just instinct, to pull Mikey against him, to bury his nose to the back of Mikey’s neck and inhale his scent. It’s hot as hell of course and, more often than not, ends with them making out against the nearest flat surface, both of them turned on and all but rubbing off against each other.  
  
‘All but’ being the operative words. Because Gerard always pulls away at the last minute, either tearing himself away completely or slowing things down. Mikey doesn’t know how he has the self-control, maybe the bastard just dials down all his senses to make himself numb, but he’s about ready to beg.  
  
So far, he’s restrained himself. Pushing got Gerard this far and it’s not like Mikey is unhappy or even insecure. The bond doesn’t lie and the bond tells him exactly how much Gerard wants him. If he’s not quite ready to do anything more about it than make both of them hot and bothered on a regular basis… Well, Mikey isn’t going to make a big deal out of it. No matter how many times he has to go and… take care of things by himself after.  
  
Besides, he’s pretty sure he gets his revenge by making sure he’s choking out Gerard’s name every time he comes.  
  
  
***  
  
  
In the end, it’s nothing Mikey does that pushes Gerard over the final edge. The trigger turns out to be something else entirely. _Someone_ else, to be precise.  
  
Mikey has wrangled a gig slot for his band at one of the venues for the night. They all know that he may not be part of the line-up for the next tour, but no one is raising the subject, presumably because Gerard is tagging along for the night as usual. He could stay home now – interestingly enough the increased intimacy between them has actually helped with dealing with the physical distance when necessary – but Mikey doesn’t want that. And it’s not like there’s anything that out of ordinary with Gerard attending their shows; he’s been supporting Mikey’s bands – yes, plural – for as long Mikey remembers.  
  
It’s a good night. Ray, Frank and Bob obviously suspect something’s shifted between them, but have just as obviously labelled it ‘sentinel and guide business, keep out’ in their heads and Mikey can’t exactly blame them. It makes things easier, just a group of friends hanging out, catching up, having a few drinks. Gerard seems relaxed too, sipping at his orange juice and laughing at Frank’s antics as he gets more and more hyped up about the upcoming show.  
  
The venue is getting busier and eventually the band needs to leave for the backroom, Gerard staying behind. Mikey lingers, last to get up.  
  
“You gonna be okay?” he asks, again nothing he wouldn’t have done before. The only difference is that this time he pushes between Gerard’s legs to say it. “Don’t want you to miss me too much, sentinel,” he whispers, leaning down, hands braced on the back of Gerard’s chair.  
  
Gerard huffs, his hands coming to circle Mikey’s waist, hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Can’t miss you if you don’t leave, guide,” he murmurs, cheek rubbing against Mikey’s, Gerard’s lips catching on the corner of his jaw briefly.  
  
Mikey chuckles. “Fair enough,” he says, straightening up and making no effort to hide his reaction, impossible to do in such tight jeans anyway. “Hope you enjoy the view at least.”  
  
He puts a little swagger to his step as he walks after his bandmates, and the bond throbs with Gerard’s amusement. And his appreciation.  
  
The gig goes well. Actually, scratch that. It goes _fucking amazingly_. Clearly, the break has done all of them good because everyone is _on_ tonight; Ray shredding like a guitar god, Frank twirling all over the stage while he yells his throat raw, Bob playing his drums like he’s summoning an army to a battle. And Mikey… It’s like the bass is an extension of him. Or maybe an extension of his emotions, because even through the screaming audience, through the burn of the spotlights, he can feel Gerard’s gaze on him like a physical weight, heavy with want. Possessive.  
  
Mikey strokes a hand down the neck of his bass in a way that is not at all subtle. The crowd screams louder, his bond pulls tighter.  
  
After little more than an hour on stage, he’s wound up as fuck, and desperate to get his sentinel’s hands on him again. He’s first out, barely pausing to pack up his bass, pushing past the people milling backstage in his haste to get to Gerard.  
  
He gets as far as the doorway back to the club proper.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Gerard has stayed at the table throughout the gig. He had a good enough view and being in the middle of a mosh pit was a one-way street to sensory overload. Even the idea of that many strangers touching him makes his skin crawl.  
  
As soon as the encore is over though, he’s up and moving. Watching Mikey play has always been… distracting. But now… When he knows what those long-fingered, _deft_ – he smirks inwardly – hands feel like, what the curve of his neck smells like, the taste of his sweat…  
  
Gerard wasn’t the only one appreciating the view of course; he could practically smell the pheromones in the air as the crowd had surged forward at each deep twang of Mikey’s bass, the sound making his bones vibrate. He’d almost enjoyed that; seeing other people want and knowing Mikey is his. His brother. _His guide._  
  
The venue is familiar, one of their regular hangouts, so he knows where the door to the backstage is and easily skirts the groups of people making their way toward the coat check. He’s still some way off though when he sees Mikey come through, sweaty and a little wild around the eyes, scanning the crowd, clearly looking for something. Looking for him, Gerard realises with a punch of pleasure.  
  
He’s just about to wave, when someone blocks Mikey from the view. A tall guy, taller than either of them, with dirty blond hair and a leather jacket so new it looks like it’s come straight of the rack. At first Gerard thinks he’s just passing Mikey on the doorway, heading in, but no, he’s not moving. And neither is Mikey.  
  
Gerard frowns, not recognising the guy, though that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, he doesn’t know all of Mikey’s friends or numerous acquaintances. Maybe it’s someone Mikey knows from work.  
  
The thought lasts exactly three steps, by which time he’s close enough to see the way stranger is crowding Mikey, touching him, hand lingering on his arm in a decidedly lascivious way. Mikey is leaning away, shaking his head. The bond between them radiates impatience sure, but nothing that would really explain Gerard’s reaction under normal circumstances.  
  
The thing is, these are _not_ normal circumstances. Someone is _touching his guide_ with intentions that are clearly beyond friendly, and maybe a few months from now Gerard can laugh such things off but this is now and now…  
  
Right now Gerard sees red, quite literally, zeroing in on the flush of alcohol staining the man’s cheeks. Then he’s running, dodging around people, adrenaline making his heart jackhammer, hell he could probably feel the increased oxygen intake if he concentrated enough.  
  
That’s not his focus though. As soon as he’s within touching distance, he grabs two handfuls of the obnoxious leather jacket and wrenches the drunk off his guide. It’s not like being a sentinel comes with super strength or anything but Gerard is mad as hell and the other guy, despite being bigger, is both drunk and taken by surprise.  
  
“Gee!” Mikey grabs hold of Gerard’s arm, tugging him back. “What the hell are you doing?”  
  
Gerard gets between him and the stranger. “Get your fucking hands off my guide,” her growls. He shoves the guy again and would have gone for a punch that his knuckles – but not _him_ – would probably have regretted later, except Mikey is a dead weight hanging off Gerard’s arm.  
  
“It’s fine, I’m fine, listen to me, Gerard. He didn’t do anything. Gee, Gee, c’mon.”  
  
“Wha— Your what?” The blond giant seems more confused than angry about the turn of affairs.  
  
“I told you,” Mikey hisses at him. “I told you I was bonded, that I had a sentinel. You _idiot!_ ”  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry, man? Sorry!”  
  
Gerard can smell the alcohol on the stranger but also on Mikey, where he was touching him, and it makes him growl again. This time he turns around, starting to push Mikey further away. All of a sudden there are way too many people around and many of them are looking their way, attention caught by the commotion.  
  
Gerard tightens his grip on his guide, heading for the nearest exit.  
  
“Where are we…? Okay, yeah, we’re going,” Mikey says and goes gratifying pliant against Gerard.  
  
A security guard gets too close and Gerard all but snarls at her. “My sentinel…” Mikey shrugs, points at the drunken guy still swaying by the backstage door. “That guy was getting a bit familiar and… Well.”  
  
The guard raises her arms, palms up, in a universal ‘don’t mind me, completely harmless’ gesture and steps out of their way. Gerard still wraps an arm around Mikey’s shoulders, pulling him close.  
  
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Mikey repeats, his voice dropping to the familiar slow cadence meant to soothe, to pull Gerard back. “Sentinel, listen to me, smell me, I’m unhurt. Let’s just go home.”  
  
It helps a little, but Gerard isn’t so easily soothed now. He knows that he’s practically dragging Mikey along, probably holding him too tightly, but he can’t seem to do anything about it right now. He shoves Mikey into the first free cab. For a second Mikey looks like he’s about to protest but then acquiesces, possibly coming to the same conclusion as Gerard: neither of them are really up to driving right now.  
  
Mikey gives the driver their address ad then nods at Gerard. “Sentinel,” he says by way of explanation To his credit, the driver just nods, closing the window between them. Gerard doesn’t care, too busy curling protectively around his guide, frantically rubbing his face against the open vee of Mikey’s collar. He’s still growling, small, soft noises that almost match the constant flow of words Mikey is murmuring.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Mikey sighs in relief when the cab rounds the final street corner. Gerard’s hold on him hasn’t eased at all since they left the club and he seems rather preoccupied by scenting Mikey’s skin, occasionally snarling like what he smells doesn’t quite agree with him. Mikey can guess what that is.  
  
When the guy had first put his hands on him at the club, Mikey had been annoyed but not scared. It wasn’t exactly the first time someone had got a bit too familiar. There were other people around, he wasn’t in any real danger.  
  
But then he’d seen Gerard, felt Gerard see him and experienced first hand the wave of anger that followed through the bond when he’d taken in the scene.  
  
_Then_ Mikey had panicked. Because this was the first time someone had gotten too familiar _after_ he’d been bonded. And Gerard’s response… Well, it had been textbook.  
  
Still is. When a bonded guide is hurt or threatened, or perceived to be, especially by another person, their sentinel will react in a highly single-minded and predictable manner: _Protect guide at all cost. Get guide to safety. Mark…_ Mikey shivers, remembering the final stage. _Mark the guide as theirs._  
  
The slows to a halt outside their gate. Mikey throws money at the driver and lets himself be dragged out of the car and toward the house, Gerard’s hand fisted around his belt like he’s expecting Mikey to run away.  
  
That’s about the last thing on his mind right now.  
  
“I’m here, I’m fine, we’re home.” He repeats the litany, fingers clumsy on the keys as he shoves the door open. Gerard is absolutely no help at all, his nails scratching long lines to the small of Mikey’s back.  
  
Gerard waits until the front door is shut behind them before kissing Mikey, but only because he slams Mikey into it first. There is nothing gentle about this kiss, full of teeth and aggression. It’s Gerard laying a _claim_ and Mikey moans, spreading his legs to make room for his sentinel to take him.  
  
Gerard is clawing at Mikey’s t-shirt, stretching the collar to get at skin. “Guide. _Mikey_ ,” he gasps between kisses, leaving a trail of them, each hard and bruising, on his neck. There is something frantic in his voice, desperation and need flooding the bond but Mikey doesn’t know how to calm him down, nor does he want to.  
  
“Yes,” he says. “C’mon, c’mon, _please_.” He shoves at Gerard enough to make room to yank his shirt over his head and ends up pushed right back to the door for his trouble, shoulder blades scraping against the wood.  
  
When Gerard bends down to lick at his nipple, Mikey howls.  
  
“Bed.” Gerard’s voice breaks, his breath hot against Mikey’s chest. “I want to…” His drops a hand to the front of Mikey’s jeans, cupping his erection through them. “I can still smell him on you,” he grinds out.  
  
“Fuck!” Mikey bucks into the touch, tries to pull together enough braincells to figure out what Gerard wants besides the obvious.  
  
“Then… Cover it up?” That’s the final step, isn’t it? “I’m your guide,” he pants as Gerard pulls him off the door, crowds him toward his bedroom.  
  
“Yes. _Mine_.” The wave of possessiveness that comes through the bond at that makes Mikey stumble.  
  
It’s his turn to growl now and he clutches at Gerard’s shirt and yanks him into a brutal kiss. “ _Ditto_ ,” he hisses, determined to make the point.  
  
They bounce off a few walls and doorways on the way, but eventually Mikey feels the edge of the bed against the backs of his knees. He sits down, takes immediate advantage of the angle and unbuckles Gerard’s belt, nuzzling his stomach, shamelessly rubbing his cheek against Gerard’s erection through his jeans. He doesn’t know if it’s some kind of sensory bleed through the bond or the mere existence of it but Gerard smells _good_ , earthy and electric and something Mikey wants to put his mouth on.  
  
So he does.  
  
Gerard’s hands fly to his hair as soon as Mikey gets his zipper down, his intentions clear. “Oh fuck, guide, I can’t…” He’s not exactly stopping him when Mikey darts his tongue into the open vee of Gerard’s jeans, licking at the root of his cock, still trapped inside. There’s a tremble to his muscles though and a harshness to his breathing that tell Mikey that he won’t last long, so reluctantly he pulls away. Another time.  
  
Gerard is staring down at him, hands still fisted in Mikey’s hair. Slowly, he tilts his head further back until Mikey is forced to arch his back, his neck and torso bowed in one long curve.  
  
When Gerard bends down to bite his shoulder, then the side of his neck, it’s not exactly a surprise. It does hurt though but in a way that only ratchets up his arousal, and by the third mark – Gerard’s teeth set on the tender flesh under his jaw – Mikey is begging for more.  
  
Gerard obliges. He pushes Mikey fully down onto the messy sheets, hands clumsy but certain as he unbuttons his jeans, skims them of Mikey’s legs. It leaves him completely naked, writhing first under the weight of Gerard’s heated gaze, and then the weight of his body as Gerard climbs on top of him.  
  
He touches-smells-tastes every inch of Mikey’s skin – behind ears, armpits, crease of thigh – trailing kisses and bites everywhere. Marking him with a constellation of bruises; a star map of belonging, of choices made and accepted.  
  
Mikey is leaking by the time Gerard pushes two fingers inside him, slippery and cool with lube.  
  
“C’mon, c’mon,” Mikey begs almost instantly, grunting from the stretch but desperate for more. “Sentinel,” he growls. “Get inside me.”  
  
In retaliation, Gerard crooks his fingers, rubbing a vicious little circle over Mikey’s prostate. “Soon,” he says, while Mikey sobs and twists, unable to get anywhere, Gerard’s grip tight on his hip.  
  
And fuck this, he’s not made of glass and he’s been waiting long enough. “Sentinel,” Mikey says, deliberately dropping his voice. “Are you focused on me?” It takes effort to pull himself together enough for this but the end results will hopefully be worth it.  
  
Gerard’s eyes snap to his, dilated almost all the way. “Always,” he says.  
  
God, Mikey loves him. “Then listen,” he says. “See, feel. Your guide needs you now. _I_ need you now, Gee.”  
  
It does the trick. Slowly, with almost eerie focus, Gerard pulls his fingers out, lining himself against Mikey’s opening and then – thank God, _finally_ – pushes in in one smooth stroke that makes Mikey arch clean off the mattress.  
  
The bond heightens everything, each sensation from Gerard flowing in to Mikey and back again, the feedback loop causing the pleasure to spiral out of control fast. Each push in is a delicious stretch, while each pull out makes him keen.  
  
Gerard is curved over him, solid and perfect, one hand laced with Mikey’s, the other wrapped around his thigh, holding him open.  
  
“Come.” Gerard shoves the word, half order, half plea, straight into Mikey’s mouth. “I want you to come.” Their lips slide gracelessly against each other, both of them too far gone to coordinate something as complicated as a kiss.  
  
Gerard sits back and hauls Mikey higher over his knees, the new angle making both of them groan. He pries one of Mikey’s hands from where it’s fisted in the covers and wraps it around his dick with a pointed squeeze.  
  
“You first,” he says and okay yeah, Mikey can take a hint.  
  
Not like he has any choice about it, not the way Gerard is fucking into him now, minute adjustments at each stroke, until Mikey’s is gasping for air, helpless from the pleasure. He just knows Gerard is using his enhanced senses to figure out exactly how to make him fall apart, which would be unfair if it wasn’t to his direct and immediate benefit.  
  
They match each other’s rhythm almost immediately, the bond ensuring they are as synch with this as with everything else.  
  
It doesn’t take long; their joint pleasure pushing Mikey over the edge and he spills over his own fist, both of their stomachs, Gerard fucking him through it. He slows down, pulls out just when Mikey is starting to feel a bit too raw, the sentinel senses making his timing perfect. Two strokes of his own fist and he’s coming all over Mikey, adding to the mess between them. Marking him.  
  
Afterwards, they curl up under the covers, foreheads resting together, their combined scent covering them both. The bond hums with satisfaction, their hands tangled between them like roots of a same tree.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Spring comes eventually, despite winter putting up a good fight. Rain washes the streets… Well, cleaner, at least. Everything turns dirty grey, then brown and finally pale green. Gerard gains a whole new appreciation for flowers and growing things, now that the smell can make him dizzy, now that he can actually _hear_ the sweet hum of the rising sap.  
  
Mikey takes him to one of the nature parks and proceeds to laugh himself sick while Gerard practically skips from tree to bush to brook, utterly enchanted. He only zones once; the drone of a waking beehive sucks him in, the sound of tens of thousands of individual bees creating a harmony as eerie and beautiful as he’s ever witnessed.  
  
It all soaks into his art too, much to the delight of his agent. He’s always had a keen eye for color and shape, but now with his sentinel senses there’s a new depth to his work, one that catches the imagination of audience and clients both. He’s never before been in a position to have to turn away work and it’s a somewhat bewildering situation to be in. It makes Mikey happy though, the stress lines around his mouth disappearing with each new pay cheque.  
  
Gerard is happier than he remembers being maybe since he was very young, when their parents were still alive and he and Mikey were just kids without a care in the world. Their bond is strong and their relationship stronger still; as sentinel and guide, and as Gerard and Mikey too. Gerard is more or less in control of his senses, and no longer needs the physical connection to his guide quite so often.  
  
Unfortunately, the earlier estimate of twenty miles give or take has turned out depressingly accurate. They tested it but every time the results were… less than pleasant. As good as it is for each of them to go about their day without having to touch every few hours, it still doesn’t solve the problem of how to fit their respective professions together.  
  
Of course, Mikey is also flat out refusing to consider it a real problem. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’ve got plenty of work here. Did I tell you I was offered regular hours at Unmarked Place? Promotion stuff, working with the talent, you know.”  
  
Gerard is happy for him, he is, but Mikey _is_ the talent. He shouldn’t be tied to one place.  
  
He’s mulling it over again as he preps dinner, waiting for Mikey to get home. He’s making a homemade pizza, the first dish he fully mastered on his own. As soon as you got the dough right, you could throw almost anything on top – a realisation that had led to some interesting experiments. Tonight Gerard is keeping it simple, slicing fresh pineapple to go with the ham as he weighs the pros and cons of going behind Mikey’s back and talking to Ray, Frank and Bob directly. Maybe getting some outside perspective would work.  
  
He can hear Mikey’s car from several blocks away, the hum of engine familiar and easily distinguishable from all the others on the streets. He doesn’t expect the sound of other vehicles pulling up behind Mikey’s though when he parks outside, nor the slap of Mikey’s feet as he runs toward the house, banging through the front door.  
  
“What’s going on?” Gerard asks. There’s no indication of distress through the bond, so he’s not really worried. Just curious. “Has something happened?”  
  
There’s a small smile playing on Mikey’s lips that he’s clearly trying to suppress. “No, everything’s fine. Uh, did you look out of the window?”  
  
Gerard frowns and immediately heads to the nearest window. “No. What’s—”  
  
“Ah, ah, ah!” Mikey blocks him. “No peeking! Now…” His smile slips through, voice gentling. “Do you trust your guide, sentinel?”  
  
Gerard can feel his eyebrows raise at the unexpected question but he nods.  
  
“Then close your eyes and give me your hands.”  
  
Gerard gives Mikey one narrow-eyed look first but… He _does_ trust Mikey and letting his eyes slip shut is the easiest thing to do.  
  
Mikey takes Gerard’s hands in both of his and leads him out of the house, walking backwards and narrating the whole time. “Doorway, watch out for the threshold. Okay, three steps down, careful!”  
  
Gerard kind of wants to point out that he’s familiar enough with the layout, having lived here his whole life as well, but the bond simmers with Mikey’s barely constrained glee. Closing his eyes does nothing to hamper his other senses though so as soon as they’re outside, he can tell that Mikey’s band is out there, waiting. That explains the other cars, if little else.  
  
Finally they come to a stop what Gerard estimates is about half-way down the drive, facing the street.  
  
“Okay,” Mikey says. “You can look now!”  
  
Gerard opens his eyes slowly, giving himself time to adjust to the afternoon sunlight. He still has to blink a few times, just to make sure he’s not hallucinating. Attached to Bob’s truck is a…  
  
“That’s a trailer,” he says. “Where… What?”  
  
“We got a trailer!” Frank says, bouncing up onto his toes in excitement. “For the band.”  
  
“And for you,” Ray adds, smiling.  
  
Bob nods. “Mikey told us to find a new bassist for the tour and—”  
  
“You did what?!” Gerard turns to Mikey who has to audacity to only shrug his shoulders.  
  
“— and we said ‘fuck that’, did a bit of brainstorming and… _Ta dah!_ ” Bob makes a little sweeping motion at the trailer.  
  
It’s clearly not new but apart for the appallingly beige color, it seems to be in good shape. It’s also massive.  
  
“This must have cost you a fortune!” Even used, these things surely don’t come cheap.  
  
“Not that much,” Ray says. “Though you’re still welcome to contribute your share.”  
  
“He’s kidding,” Mikey says. “I already took both our shares from the savings account. I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”  
  
When Gerard only continues to stare at him and the trailer in turn, Mikey’s expression turns hesitant. “I though… It’s big enough for all of us, the band equipment and your art stuff. It’s not as good as your home studio but I thought we could set up a space for you in one of the bedrooms, just clear the bed away. There’s still bunks and another double, I think this was owned by, like, a Mormon family or something.”  
  
“A mobile studio?” Gerard asks.  
  
“Yeah.” Mikey is smiling now, clearly feeling the mounting joy through the bond. “You want a tour of the inside?”  
  
Gerard grins in reply, letting some of the wild joy he feels slip through. It clearly doesn’t go unobserved by the others either, because Bob hurries over to decouple the trailer from his truck.  
  
“Yup, leaving this here for now,” he says, getting into his truck. “Make sure you disinfect it. Afterwards.”  
  
“Oh, what’s the hurry?” Frank “We could all… _Hey!_ ” Ray snatches him by the back of his jacket, hauling him toward his car.  
  
“Okay, we’re going now,” he says loudly, right over Frank’s complaints. “See you later.”  
  
Gerard and Mikey both raise their hands in goodbye but their eyes are locked on each other.  
  
“So… How many bedrooms did you say this thing has?” Gerard asks once they have the yard to themselves again.  
  
Mikey’s smile turns wicked. “Two,” he says. “And four bunk beds.”  
  
Gerard hauls him into a burning kiss, pouring all his love and appreciation into it. “Lead the way,” he says when they come up for air.  
  
Mikey laughs, opening the gate with a flourish. “Come along, sentinel.”  
  
Gerard follows, his steps light. His heart too. They got it now, the missing puzzle piece that allows them to keep each other _and_ keep true to who they are.  
  
No compromises.  
  
Well, except maybe about the paintjob. Because that beige really needs to go.  
  
“Hey Mikey?” Gerard asks, slipping two fingers into Mikey’s back pocket as they climb the steps to the trailer. “What are your thoughts on magenta? Maybe violet?”


End file.
